#  v^ 


^■^mxa<wmiwxs^wmwi!^BmmimmMaiBBaifSBim 


OF  THE 
UNIVERSITY 


THE 


FEMALE    POETS 


GEEAT    BRITAIN, 


CHRONOLOGICALLY   ARRANGED: 


WITH 


COPIOUS  SELECTIONS  AND  CRITICAL  REMARKS. 


BY 


FREDERIC     ROWTON. 


WITH   ADDITIONS   BY   AN   AMERICAN   EDITOR, 


AND  ELEGANTLY  ENGRAVED  ILLUSTRATIONS 
BY  CELEBRATED  ARTISTS. 


PHILADELPHIA: 
HENRY    C.    B  A  T  R  D, 

(successor   to    E.    L.    CAREY,) 
No.  7  HART'S  BUILDINGS,  SIXTH  STREET  ABOVE  CHESTNUT. 

18  54. 


Entered  according  to  Act  ot  Congress  in  the  year  184S,  by  Carey  and  Hart,  in  the 
Clerk's  Office,  of  the  District  Court  of  the  Eastern  District  of  Pennsyivanin. 


Printed  by  T.  K.  &  P.  O.  Coliine. 


PREFACE. 


The  design  of  the  Author,  in  writing  the  following  pages,  is  to 
supply  a  want  which  must  have  been  frequently  experienced  by 
every  student  of  our  literary  annals  ;  —  the  want  of  a  History  of 
our  Female  Poets.  Of  our  male  Poets  there  are  (to  say  the 
least  of  it)  histories  enough.  Johnson,  Campbell,  Aiken,  Ander- 
son, Southey,  and  others,  have  done  due  honour  to  the  genius  of 
the  rougher  sex  ;  and  have  left  us  —  so  far  as  they  have  gone  — 
nothing  to  be  desired. 

But  where  are  the  memorials  of  the  Female  mind  ?  In  the  re- 
cords above  alluded  to,  the  Poetesses  of  Britain  are  either  left 
unnoticed  altogether,  or  mentioned  with  a  flippant  carelessness 
which  is  even  more  contemptuous  than  total  silence.  One  or 
two  small  works  (among  which  Mr.  Dyce's  Specimens  of  British 
Poetesses  is  the  only  one  of  merit  and  research)  have  been  devo- 
ted to  the  subject,  it  is  true  ;  but  even  the  worthiest  of  these  produc- 
tions is  at  best  but,  incomplete.  It  cannot  surely  be  pretended 
that  this  neglect  of  our  Female  Poets  is  attributable  to  any  lack 
of  genius  in  the  sex.  In  these  enlightened  days  it  may  certainly 
be  taken  for  granted  that  women  have  souls  :  and  further,  that 
their  souls  have  no  small  influence  upon  the  world  of  thought 
and  action.  This  admission  made,  it  will  follow  that  the  mental 
efforts  of  woman  have  as  good  a  claim  as  man's  to  be  recorded  ; 
and  that  we  should  be  deeply  ashamed  of  ourselves  for  so  long 
withholding  from  them  that  prominent  place  in  the  world's  esteem 
which  is  so  undoubtedly  their  due. 

To  tell  the  truth,  we  have  already  suffered  severely  for  our  folly 
in  this  matter.  Had  the  soul  of  woman  been  allowed  to  operate 
more  widely  in  the  world,  it  cannot  be  doubted  that  humanity 
would  have  been  far  wiser,  and  better,  and  happier  than  it  is, 

iii 


iv;578859 


iv  PREFACE. 

Man's  coarser  spirit  has  preponderated  in  the  universe  of  life,  and 
has  made  us  much  too  gross,  material,  sensual,  and  violent.  Our 
passions,  sentiments,  and  beliefs,  have  all  been  too  strong,  too 
rough,  too  vehement;  and  we  have  gone  through  much  strife 
and  sorrow  on  this  account.  They  should  have  been  tempered, 
harmonised,  smoothed  down,  softened  by  contact  with  the  mind 
of  woman.  Our  mental  atmosphere  has  contained  too  large  a 
proportion  of  one  of  its  elements  ;  and  hence,  it  has  neither  been 
so  pure  nor  so  wholesome  as  it  might  have  been.  Only  one-ha/f 
of  the  human  soul  has  yet  had  a  fair  scope  for  development, — 
and  that  the  coarser  half;  the  other  has  been  circumscribed  in  its 
operations,  and  thus  has  been  left  to  run  to  waste. 

The  Author  confidently  hopes  that  the  work  which  he  here 
presents  to  the  reader  will  justify  the  position  which  he  has  as- 
sumed, and  at  least  prove  that  the  Poetical  Faculty  is  not  confined 
to  one  of  the  sexes.  If  it  should  only  serve  to  direct  critical  atten- 
tion to  the  subject,  he  will  be  fully  satisfied  ;  for  he  will  know, 
that  in  such  case  our  Female  Poets  will  soon  be  as  honourably 
appreciated  as  they  unquestionably  deserve  to  be. 

The  Author  takes  this  opportunity  to  return  his  grateful  thanks 
to  those  of  our  living  Poetesses  whose  names  occur  in  this  volume, 
for  the  permission  which  they  have  so  readily  given  him  to  make 
extracts  from  their  works,  and  for  the  kind  interest  which  they 
have,  without  exception,  manifested  in  his  undertaking. 

London,  1848. 


\*  The  publishers  have  had  this  work  revised,  and  the  present 
edition  contains  many  important  additions,  which  are  distinguished 
by  being  marked  in  the  table  of  contents  with  an  asterisk  [*]. 

Philadelphia,  June,  1848. 


CONTENTS. 


PREFACE          -       .        -        -  Pagk.  lii 

INTRODUCTORY  CHAPTER          -  v 

LADY  JULIANA  BERNERS      -  25 

Extract  from  Hunting           -        -  26 

To  have  a  Faithful  Friend        -  26 

QUEEN  ANNE  BOLEYNE     -        -  28 

Defiled  is  my  Name  full  sore    -  28 

MRS.  ANNE  ASKEWE  ...  30 

Ballad  written  in  Newgate       -  31 

QUEEN  ELIZABETH      .        -        -  34 

Sonnet  written  at  Woodstock  -  34 

Mary,  Queen  of  Scots           -        -  35 

Stanzas       ....        -  36 

MARY,  COUNTESS  OF  PEMBROKE  33 

A  Dialogue  between  two  Shepherds  38 

Chorus  from  Antony    -        -        -  41 

Epitaph 43 

MISS  ELIZABETH  MELVILLE    -  44 

Ane  Godlie  Dram&    -        -        -  44 

LADY  ELIZABETH  CAREW        -  47 

Extract  from  Mariam       -        -  47 

LADY  MARY  WROTH  -        -        -  49 

Song 49 

Song 50 

ANNE,  COUNTESS  OF  ARUNDEL  52 

Verses        ....        -  52 

MRS.  DIANA  PRIMROSE      -        -  54 

Extract  from  A  Chain  of  Pearl  54 

MRS.  MARY  PAGE         ...  56 

Anagram   -        .        -        -        -  50 

Anagram       .....  57 

l\nSS  ANNA  HUME        .        -        -  53 

From  The  Triumph  of  Death  -  58 

•MRS.  ANNE  BRADSTREET       -  60 

MISS  ANN  COLLINS  ...  61 

Song 61 


MISS  MARY  MORPETH     -        -  64 

To  William  Druinmond        .        .  64 

MRS.  KATHERINE  PHILIPS     -  67 

Ode  against  Pleasure  -        .        -  67 

A  Country  Life          ...  63 

To  my  Antenor    -        -        -        -  71 

PRINCESS  ELIZABETH,  (QUEEN 

OF  BOHEMIA)            ...  73 

Verses   .-----  73 

MRS.  FRANCES  BOOTHBY       -  73 

Song 73 

MARGARET,  DUCHESS  OF 

NEWCASTLE     ...        -  79 

Of  the  Theme  of  Love           .        .  79 

The  Elfin  Queen        ...  79 

Melancholy 80 

Dwelling  of  Melancholy   .        -  80 

The  Funeral  of  Calamity      -        -  81 

Queen  Mab's  Dinner  Table      -  81 

MISS  ANNE  KILLIGREW     -        -  83 

The  Complaint  of  a  Lover        -  83 

Epitaph S5 

Herodia's  Daughter  -        -  85 

ANNE,  MARCHIONESS  OF 

WHARTON         ....  87 

Verses  on  the  Snuff  of  a  Candle  87 

Song 88 

MRS    TAYLOR         ...        -  90 

Song 90 

To  Mertill 91 

Song 91 

MRS.  APHARA  BEHN   ...  93 

Love  in  Fastastic  Triumph  sat  94 
The    Difference   between  Hymen 

and  Cupid  .        -        -        -  94 

The  Return 95 

The  Invitation  of  Horace          -  96 

LADY  MARY  CHUDLEIGH  -        -  97 

The  Resolve       ....  97 

To  the  Ladies        ...        -  98 
V 


CONTENTS. 


THE  HONOURABLE   MARY 

MONK 100 

Epislle  lo  Mariiida        •        -        -  lun 

On  Proviilence          -        -        -  101 

Verses  wriUeii  on  her  Deathbed  101 

ANNE.   COUNTESS   OF    WIN- 
CHELSEA    103 

A  Nocturnal  Reverie   -        -        -  103 

Reply  to  Pope   -        -        -        -  105 

The  Atheist  and  the  Acorn          -  106 

Life's  Progress  ...        -  107 

Song 108 

Spleen        .....  109 

MISS  ESTHER  VANHOMRIGH    -  110 

Ode  to  Spring    -        -        -        -  110 

MRS.  SUSANNA  CENTLIVRE      -  111 
Prologue  to  a  Bold  Stroke  for  a 

Wife Ill 

MRS.  CATHERINE  COCKBURN  113 

The  Caution       -        -        -        -  114 

The  Vain  Advice           -        -        -  114 

MRS.  ELIZABETH  THOMAS     -  115 

Predestination      -        -        -        -  115 

MRS.  MARY  BARBER         -        -  117 

On  sending  my  Son  to  Dr.  Sviift  117 

MRS.  ELIZABETH  ROWE         -  119 

Hymn 119 

Despair       .....  i'20 

MRS.  JANE  BRERETON        •        -  122 

To  Damon          ....  loo 

To  Philolinus         ....  123 

On  Beau  Nash's  Picture  -        -  124 

MISS  MARY  CHANDLER      -       '-  125 

Temperance       -        .        -        -  125 

MISS  ELIZA  HEYWOOD       -        -  126 

Extract  from  llie  Tea  Table    -  126 

MISS  ELIZABETH  TOLLET          .  123 

Winter  Song      ....  ]2S 

On  a  Death's  Head        ...  129 

MRS.  L^TITIA  PILKINGTON  130 

Ode  in  Imitation  of  Horace       -  130 

Song 131 

MRS.  MARY  LEAPOR        -        -  132 

The  Temple  of  Love     .        .        -  132 

HENRIETTA,   LADY  LEXBO- 

ROUGH 135 

The  Bullfinch  in  Town      -        -  135 

MRS.  PENNINGTON       -        •        -  137 

Ode  to  Morning         -        -        -  137 


MISS  MARY  MASTERS  .        -    139 

To  Lucinda       -        -        -        -        139 

MRS.  MADAN        -        -        -        .        141 
Verses  written   in  her   Brother's 
Coke  upon  Littleton     -        .    141 

»LADY  ANNE  IRWIN 

*  Defence  of  Woman   ... 

LADY  MARY  WORTLEY  AtON- 

TAGU 

The  Lady's  Resolve      ... 
Hymn  to  the  Moon    ... 
Advice  -.•-.. 
An  Answer  to  a  Lady 


MRS.  FRANCES  SHERIDAN 
Ode  to  Patience         ... 

MISS  MARY  JONES  ... 
Epistle  to  Lady  Bowyer   . 
To  Stella       ..... 

*  MRS.  ANNE  STEELE 

*  To  my  Watch     ... 

MRS.  FRANCES  BROOKE - 
Song  from  Marian 

Song 

Song  from  Rosina 

Ode  to  Health    .... 

MRS.  GREVILLE      .... 
Prayer  for  Indifference 

MISS  CONSTANTIA  GRIERSON 

Lines  to  Miss  Van  Lewen 

MRS.  HENRIETTA  O'NEIL    - 
Ode  to  the  Poppy       ... 
Verses  on  seeing  her  Sons  at  Play 

MRS.  MARY  ROBINSON 

Sonnet        .... 
The  Snow  Drop    ... 

MRS.  HESTER  CHAPONE 
Lilies  written  during  a  Storm 
Ode  to  Solitude 


142 
142 

145 
145 
145 
J46 
146 

148 
143 

151 
151 
152 

154 
154 

155 
155 
136 
156 
157 

158 
153 

161 
161 

163 
163 
165 

166 
166 
167 

169 
169 
170 


GEORGIANA,  DUCHESS  OF  DE- 
VONSHIRE   .  -        -        -  173 

The  Passage  of   the  Mount  St. 

Golhard       -        -        -        -  173 

MISS  ELIZABETH  CARTER         .  173 

Ode  lo  Wisdom  ....  170 

Lines  written  at  Midniglit    -        -  182 

MRS.  ANN  YEARSLEY       .        -  1S4 

From  Clifton  Hill  -       -        .        -  184 


CONTENTS. 


From  a  Poem  on  Mrs.  Montagu 

MISS  CAROLINE  SYMONDS 
The  Harebell      -        -        .        . 
The  Failed  Rose    -        -        .        . 
Sonnet  to  Lady  Lucy  Foley 
The  Blighted  Rosebud  - 

MRS.  CHARLOTTE  SMITH 

Sonnet. — The  Close  of  Spring 
Sonnet         ..... 
Sonnet. — The  Glow  Worm  - 
Sonnet.— To  the  Moon 
Sonnet.— The  Niglitingale    - 
Sonnet        ..... 


MISS  ANN  SEWARD      - 

Sonnet. — December  Morning 
Time  Past     .        - 

Song 

The  Grave  of  Youth     - 

MISS  SCOTT  (of  Ancram)      . 
The  Owl         .        .        .       . 


MRS.  MARY  TIGHE     - 

Exnacl  from  Psyche    .        .        . 
The  Lily 

MISSES  MARIA  AND  HARRIET 
FALCONAR    

Extract  from  M.  Falconars  Poem 
Extract  from  H.  Falconar's  Poem 

MISS  ELIZABETH  TREFUSIS 

The  Boy  and  Butterfly 
Eudora's  Lamentation 

MISS  JANE  ELLIOTT  - 

The  Flowers  of  the  Forest    . 

MISS  ALICIA  COCKBURN 
The  Flowers  of  the  Forest    - 

MRS.  HANNAH  COWLEY  - 
On  the  Death  of  Chatterton     - 

ISABELLA.  COUNTESS  OF  CAR- 
LISLE   

Answer  to  Mrs.  Greville 


187 
1S7 
188 
189 
189 

J91 
191 
192 
193 
193 
194 
194 

195 
]95 
19G 
197 
193 

199 
199 

200 
200 
203 


MRS.  LEICESTER 

The  Mock  Hero    -        .        .        . 

MRS.  HANNAH  MORE 
Extract  from  Sensilt>lit>/ 
The  Two  Weavers    -        .        . 
Extract  from  Daniel      -        .        . 
Passion,  the  Source  of  Misery  - 

MISS  HELEN  MARIA  WILLIAMS 
Sonnet  to  Hope  .... 
Paraphrase        .... 


206 
206 
207 

209 
209 
210 

212 
212 

214 
214 

216 
216 

218 
218 

221 
221 

222 
223 
224 
226 
226 

928 
229 
228 


Sonnet  to  Twilight 

Song  ...... 

Sonnet  to  the  Moon 

Habitual  Devotion     ... 

MRS.  ELEANOR  ANNE  FRANK- 
LIN   

Extract  from  Cwur  dc  Lion 

MISS  SUSANNA  BLAMIRE  - 

Song 

The  Siller  Crown  -        .        .        . 

MRS.  MARY  BRUNTON      . 

Stanzas  for  Music         .        .        . 

ANNA  LiETITIA  BARBAULD    - 
To  a  Lady  with  some  Flowers    . 
Ode  to  Spring        .        -        .        . 
Hymn  to  Content       .        .        - 
On  tlie  Diety          .        .        .        . 
Hymn 

MRS.  LADY  ANNE  BARNARD     . 
AuM  Robin  Gray      ... 

MRS.  ANNE  GRANT  (of  Laggan)    - 
Extract  from  The  Highlanders 

MRS.  ANNE  HUNTER    - 
To-morrow         ... 
Simile     ---.-. 
The  Lot  of  Thousands 
The  Ocean  Grave  -        •        . 

Song 

Song 

To  my  Daughter  on  her  Marriage 

MRS.  HESTER  LINCH  PIOZZI 

The  Three  Warnings  -        .        - 


229 
230 
231 
232 


MRS.  ANN  RADCLIFFE 
To  the  Winds 
The  Glow  Worm 
Song  of  a  Spirit 

MRS.  HENRY  ROLLS  - 

Sighs      .        .        .        . 
Smiles         ... 
The  Warrior's  Song     - 

LADY  BURRELL - 
Chloe  and  Myra    - 
To  Emma  -        .        . 


MISS  LUCY  AIKIN       - 
The  Beggar  I\Ian  - 
Arabia 

MRS  AMELIA  OPIE  - 
The  Orphan  Boy's  Tale 
Song  .... 
Hymn  ... 


2.33 
2:33 

237 
237 

233 

240 
240 

242 
243 
244 
246 
243 
249 

252 
252 

254 
255 

257 
257 
259 
253 
259 
200 
260 
261 


2G2 

262 

2G6 
206 
267 
269 

271 
271 
272 
273 

275 
275 
276 

277 
277 
279 

280 

280 
282 
282 


CONTENTS. 


On  AVar 

Remembrance    - 
A  Lament 


-  2S3 

2S4 

-  2S4 


MISS  JOANNA  BAILLIE    -        -  2S7 

To  a  Child 283 

A  Mother  to  her  Waking  Infant  289 

Song  jTom  the  Beacon  -        -  291 

Song 2i)-2 

Hymn 292 

Hymn 293 

The  Grave  of  Columbus       -        -  294 

Extract  from  Dt  Monfort  -        -  297 

Extract  from  Henriquez       -       -  303  : 

MRS.  MARGARET  HODSON  -  307 

The  Dream  of  Gra;me        -        -  307' 

On  Memory 310 

Extract  from  Margaret  of  Anjou  -  312 

MISS  MARY  RUSSELL  MITFORD  327 


Infant  Love  .        .        -        - 

The  March  of  Mind  - 
The  Voice  of  Praise     - 
Jerusalem  .        .        -        -        - 

Antigone 

To  my  Mother  Sleeping    - 
The  Masque  of  the  Seasons  - 
Bridal  Song        .        .        .        - 
Extract  from  Rienzi     - 

MRS.  MARY  HOWITT 

Tyre 

The  Children      .        -        -        . 
Birds  in  Summer  -        -        -        • 
Mountain  Children    .        -        - 
Pauper  Orphans    -        -        - 
A  City  Street     -        .        -        - 
The  Sale  of  tlie  Pet  Lamb    • 
Thoughts  of  Heaven 
English  Churches  - 
The  Seven  Temptations    - 

MRS.  CAROLINE  SOUTHEY 
The  Pauper's  Deathbed    - 
The  Dying  Mother  to  her  Infant 

The  River 

The  Death  of  the  Flowers    - 
Mariner's  Hymn        ... 
*The  Last  Journey 
*  I  Never  Cast  a  Flower  Away 
» To  Death     -       -        .        - 


323 

328  I 

329  I 
331 
332 
336 
337 
340 
343 

3.50 
350 
353 
355 
357 
358 
360 
360 
3G3 
364 
366 

374 
374 
375 
378 
379 
380 
381 
383 
384 


*The  American  Forest  Girl  -  •  392 
*The   Landing   of  tlie  Pilgrim 

Fathers  -  -  -  -  395 
*The   Traveller  at  the   Source 

of  the  Nile       -        -        -        -  396 

♦Mozart's  Requiem   -        -       -  393 

*  The  Hour  of  Death     -        -        -  400 

*  Tlie  Adopted  Child  ...  402 

*MRS.  TONNA,  (CHARLOTTE 

ELIZABETH)       -        -       -        -  404 

*  To  a  Horse 404 

*  A  Night  Storm  at  Sea  -  -  406 
*The  Millenium  -        -        -        -  407 

THE  HONOURABLE  MRS.  NOR- 
TON    409 

The  Mother's  Heart  -        -        -  410 

The  Aralj's  Farewell  to  his  Steed  411 

To  the  Dutchess  of  Sutherland     -  413 

j          *  The  Visionary  Portrait  -        -  416 

i         *  To  the  Lady  H.  O.      -        -        -  418 

I          *  The  Blind  Man's  Bride  -        -  420 

I         *  Weep  not  for  Him  that  Dieth     ■  422 

MRS.  L^TITIA  ELIZABETH 

MACLEAN,  (MISS  LANDON)     -  424 

Extract  from  the  Improvisgutrice  425 

Song 427 

Song 423 

Song 429 

Change  .        -        -        •        -        -  430 

The  Soldier's  Funeral       -        -  432 

The  Grasp  of  the  Dead          -        -  433 

Crescentius  -  .  -  -  -  435 
Sir  Walter  Manny        -        -        -    436 

*The  Awakening  of  Endymion  433 

*  We  Might  Have  Been         -        -    440 

*  Stanzas  on  the  Death  of  Mrs. 
Hemans  -        -        .        - 


MRS.  ABDY     - 

The  Destiny  of  Genius - 
The  Child  in  a  Garden 
Where  shall  I  die? 


MRS.  FELICIA  HEMANS    -        -  386 
Extract  from  The  Burial  of  the 

Forest 3?9 

Extract  from  Tlie  Sceptic         -  391 


-  442 

440 

-  446 
447 

-  443 

Lines  on  the  Death  of  Mrs.  Hemans  449 
The  Builders  of  the  Ark  -  -  451 
The  Darkness  of  Egypt  -  -  452 
Tlie  White  Poppy  ...  454 
The  Language  of  Flowers    -        -    455 

MRS.  ELLIS.  (SARAH  STICKNET)    457 
♦The  Pilgrim's  Rest      -        -        -     45S 

*  Love's  Early  Dream        -        -       460 

*MISS    JEWSBURY,   (MRS. 

FLETCHER)        ....  462 

*  The  Lost  Spirit  ...        -  402 

*  The  Dying  Girl  to  her  Mother  404 


CONTENTS. 


IX 


*  A  Dream  of  the  Future       -        -  465 

•LADY  FLORA  HASTINGS        -  470 

*  'I'he  Cross  of  Vasco  de  Gama  470 

*  The  Swan  Song      ...  471 

•  MARY  ANNE  BROWNE  (MRS. 

GRAY) 472 

*  The  Embroideress  at  Midnight  472 
*Tl;e  Biidegroom  to  his  Bride     -  474 

»MRS.   SARA  COLERIDGE        -  477 

*Love  Song  -----  477 

*  False  Love      -        -        -        .  478 

*  One  Face  Alone          -        -        -  47S 

MISS  ELIZA  COOK      -        -        .  480 

The  Gipsey's  Tent         -        -        -  481 

The  Worhl          ....  4.'^2 
We'll  Sing  another  Christmas  Song  4^4 

The  Mourners        -        -        -        -  485 

He  that  is  without  Sin        -        -  488 

Love 491 

*  The  Old  Arm  Chair        -        -  493 
♦Washington         -        ...  404 

*  The  Loved  One  was  not  There  495 

MRS.  FRANCES  ANNE  BUTLER  49G 

Autumn 496 


Winter 497 

Ballad 498 

*To 4'J9 


MRS.  ELIZABETH   BARRETT 
BROWNING        .        -        .        . 
Chorus  of  Edsn  Spirits 
Extracts  from  A  Drama  of  Exile 
The    Measure        .        -        .        . 

The  Sleep 

Victoria's  Tears    -        .        -        - 

*  Calarina  to  Camoens 

*  The  Cry  of  the  Human 

*  Uowper's  Grave      -        .        - 


*MISS  LOWE 

*  Extract   from    Cephalus  and 

Procris         -        .        -        . 

*  Hour  of  Night  Departing   - 

MISS  CHARLOTTE  YOUNG      - 
The  Bird  and  the  Fountain  - 
Every-day  Heroes     -        -        . 
Extract  from  The  World's  Com- 
plaint      -       .        .       .        . 
Oh  !  ever  thus  do  Sun  and  Shade 
Evening      .        .        -        -        . 
The  Poor  Man's  Flower      - 


500 
502 
503 
505 
506 
508 
509 
514 
518 


522 
523 

524 

524 
626 

523 
529 
530 
531 


INTRODUCTORY    CHAPTER. 


In  presenting  to  the  reader  a  History  of  the  Female  Poets  of 
Great  Britain,  the  author  feels  called  upon  to  make  a  few  general 
remarks  upon  the  subject. 

First,  he  would  express  his  profound  conviction  that  the  Poet- 
esses of  our  country  have  displayed  a  richness  and  depth  of  ge- 
nius which  may  challenge  the  admiration,  and  demand  the  serious 
attention,  of  the  world.  The  following  pages  offer,  in  the  hum- 
ble opinion  of  their  Compiler,  undeniable  evidence  in  support  of 
this  belief;  and  further  show  that  the  female  soul  contains  inex- 
haustible mines  of  precious  jewels,  the  existence  of  which  has  as 
yet  been  scarcely  recognised.  The  fact  that  this  is  almost  the  first 
book  expressly  devoted  to  the  poetical  productions  of  the  British 
Female  mind,  tends  strongly  to  prove  that  woman's  intellect  has 
been  overlooked,  if  not  despised,  by  us  hitherto  ;  and  that  it  is 
high  time  we  should  awake  to  a  sense  of  our  folly  and  injustice. 
We  have  practically,  if  not  professedly,  avowed  our  belief  that 
the  thoughts  of  the  feminine  soul  are  not  worth  preserving :  with 
how  little  reason  we  have  done  so,  this  work  aims  to  show. 

It  may  be  true  that  woman's  verse  is  less  exciting  than  man's ; 
and  less  "  interesting"  to  the  mass  of  readers:  but  I  am  inclined 
to  think  that  this  is  so  only  because  the  mind  of  the  world 
has  been  hitherto  unduly  stimulated,  and  therefore  can  only  relish 
highly-seasoned  food.  War,  Passion,  Glory,  and  Sensual  Plea- 
sures have  been  the  chief  subjects  of  verse  down  to  a  compara- 
tively recent  period  ;  and  not  until  this  false  excitement  has  alto- 
gether passed  away,  can  the  gentler  glow  of  woman's  unobtrusive 
spirit  be  fairly  felt.  The  qualities  of  woman's  mind  are  the  stars 
of  the  mental  hemisphere  :  and  during  the  time  that  is  past,  they 

B*  xi 


INTRODUCTORY   CHAPTER. 


have  been  outblazed  by  fiercer  fires;    but  the  heaven  is  now 
clearing,  and  tlie  soft  starlight  is  becoming  visible. 

I  would  go  on  to  observe  that  other  influences  have  tended  to 
repress  the  poetical  faculty  of  W(>man,  and  to  keep  it  in  the  back- 
ground of  the  universe.  Our  system  of  educating  females  has 
narrowed  their  sphere  of  observation,  contracted  their  experience, 
and  done  its  best  to  chain  their  intellects  to  the  mere  frivolities  of 
life.  Further,  their  poetical  attempts  have  met  with  discourage- 
ments. I  do  not  mean  to  say  that  they  have  not  been  flattered 
and  applauded, —  every  Poetess  has  found  her  little  coterie  of 
admirers,  who  have  fed  her  to  surfeit  with  their  unwholesome 
adulation;  but  I  mean  that  the  world  has  on  the  whole  disre- 
garded the  mental  efiorts  of  woman,  or  else  has  looked  upon  them 
as  something  out  of  the  proper  sphere  of  the  sex,  and  therefore 
to  be  petted  and  protegeed  and  lionized,  rather  than  honestly 
welcomed  and  carefully  cultivated.  If  I  am  asked  for  proof  of 
this  assertion,  I  point  to  the  fact  that  our  female  versifiers,  though 
always  applauded  highly  by  cotemporaries,  have  never  yet  been 
included  in  the  list  of  our  national  Poets. 

I  know  that  of  late  this  fault  of  neglect  has  been,  in  part, 
amended.  During  the  last  half-century  our  Poetesses  have 
received  a  far  healthier  kind  of  regard:  indeed  their  claim  to 
distinction  has  been  so  far  admitted  as  to  make  our  wise  men 
ask  one  another  whether  they  should  any  longer  permit  such  a 
word  as  Poetfss  at  all?  But  this  in  no  degree  disproves  the  as- 
sertion which  I  have  made, —  that,  on  the  whole,  woman's  intel- 
lectual efforts  have  been  in  effect  discouraged.  Nay,  even  the 
present  day,  with  all  its  boasted  gallantry,  has  done  much  to 
repulse  and  retard  woman's  advancement.  Have  we  not  seen 
that  when  young  Female  Poets  have  by  their  genius  placed  them- 
selves prominently  before  the  public,  they  have  been  met  with 
shameful  malice  and  slander,  and  bidden  back,  wounded  in  heart, 
into  privacy  and  retirement?  Critics  who  could  not  deny  their 
talents,  have  belied  their  characters ;  and  a  gossiping  Morld  has 
only  been  too  ready  to  believe  the  calumniators. 

Indeed,  considering  the  hindrances  in  woman's  way,  the  won- 
der is,  not  that  she  has  done  so  little,  but  that  she  has  done  so 
much.     To  me  there  could  not  be  a  clearer  proof  of  the  strength 


INTRODUCTORY   CHAPTER. 


and  excellence  of  the  female  intellect,  than  is  found  in  the  fact 
that  woman  has  persevered  so  long,  and  accomplished  such  great 
things,  in  spite  of  the  difficulties  she  has  had  to  encounter :  and 
I  cannot  but  think  that  the  superior  place  which  woman  now 
holds  in  the  world's  esteem,  as  compared  with  her  relative  posi- 
tion in  past  ages,  is  due,  not  to  man's  justice,  but  to  her  own 
determination. 

But,  not  to  speculate  further  upon  what  woman's  literary- 
efforts  miglit  have  been  under  more  favourable  circumstances,  let 
us  now  speak  of  her  works  as  we  find  them  exemplified  in  the 
pages  before  us. 

It  may  be  at  once  admitted  that  woman  has  not  soared  so  high 
as  man  has  done  in  the  realm  of  Poetry.  We  certainly  have  no 
female  Sliakspere.  We  have  Poetesses  who  resemble  him : 
Joanna  Baillie  is  often  like  him  ;  so  is  Miss  Holford ;  so  is  Miss 
Mitford ;  so  are  many  others  who  could  be  named ;  but  the 
similarity  is  in  single  features,  not  in  the  whole  character.  We 
have  no  female  Milton,  either.  Many  of  our  lady  Poets  are  sub- 
lime, many  devotional :  Mrs.  Barbauld  has  Milton's  solemn  sense 
of  adoration;  Mrs.  Rowe  has  his  meditative  calmness;  Mrs. 
Hemans  has  his  gentle,  confiding  humility: — but  where  is  the 
female  imagination  that  has  mounted  such  stupendous  heights,  or 
penetrated  such  awful  depths  ?  We  must  remember,  however, 
that  there  is  but  one  Shakspere,  but  one  Milton ;  and  that  men 
seem  as  little  likely  as  women  to  furnish  their  counterparts. 

But  what  other  great  British  Poets  are  there  with  whom  we 
have  not  Poetesses  to  compare?  Have  we  not  a  Byron  in  Miss 
Landon,  a  Cowper  in  the  Countess  of  Winchelsea,  a  Spenser  in 
Mrs.  Tighe,  a  Goldsmith  in  Mrs.  Grant,  a  Johnson  in  Hannah 
More,  a  Wycherly  in  Mrs.  Centlivre,  a  Collins  in  Mrs.  Radcliffe, 
a  Coleridge  in  Mrs.  Browning,  a  Wordsworth  in  Mary  Howitt,  a 
Scott  (and  more)  in  Joanna  Baillie  ?  Or  if  it  will  still  be  main- 
tained that  some,  or  even  all,  of  these  ladies  fail  to  reach  the  full 
height  of  the  Poets  they  resemble,  where  is  to  be  found  the 
dogmatist  daring  enough  to  say  that  the  difference  is  sufficiently 
great  to  be  set  up  as  a  mark  of  distinction  between  the  one  sex 
and  the  other  ?  I  cannot  doubt  that  if  woman  had  been  permitted 
the  enjoyment  of  the  same  opportunities  as  man,  she  would  have 


xiv  INTRODUCTORY    CHAPTER. 


presented  to  the  world  works  as  lofty  in  imagination  and  as  noble 
in  sublimity  as  any  that  have  proceeded  from  the  greatest  of  the 
other  sex. 

The  doctrine  of  woman's  intellectual  inferiority  is  one  which 
I  cannot  think  upon  without  an  impatience  bordering  on  indigna- 
tion. That  our  mothers,  wives,  sisters — that  one  half  of  the 
human  race  —  should  be  deemed  to  be  endowed  with  an  inferior 
kind,  or  degree,  of  intelligence  to  that  which  animates  the 
remaining  portion  of  the  species,  is  a  theory  so  monstrous,  that 
I  can  only  wonder  at  even  a  savage  age  believing  it.  Woman 
intellectually  inferior  to  man  !  Woman,  who  is  man's  helpmeet; 
■woman,  who  has  the  care  of  the  infant  mind,  and  can  impress  it 
as  she  will ;  woman,  who  from  the  cradle  to  the  grave  has  power 
to  command,  to  enslave,  to  direct,  man's  intellect  at  her  pleasure  ! 
Is  it  credible  that  a  belief  so  absurd  should  have  gained  footing  in 
the  world  at  all  ?  It  may  be.  But  it  is  incredible  that  it  should 
form  a  subject  for  debate  in  this,  the  nineteenth  century.  It  is  at 
least  a  satisfaction  to  think  that,  in  addition  to  the  immense 
amount  of  testimony  which  the  records  of  all  arts  and  sciences 
bear  to  woman's  mental  equality,  the  present  volume  furnishes  a 
further  overpowering  proof  to  the  same  effect. 

I  am  quite  prepared  to  grant  that  the  mental  constitutions  of  the 
sexes  are  different ;  but  I  am  not  at  all  prepared  to  say  that 
"difference"  means  "inferiority."  It  is  easy  enough  to  under- 
stand that  the  sphere  of  woman's  duty  requires  powers  altogether 
dissimilar  from  those  which  are  needed  by  man ;  but  that  this  is 
any  proof  of  a  smaller  development  of  mind,  I  beg  leave  emphati- 
cally to  deny.  Woman's  qualities  may  be  less  conspicuous,  but 
they  are  quite  as  important;  they  may  be  less  apparent,  but  they 
are  quite  as  influential.  Man  has  to  bear  outward,  tangible,  rule; 
and  his  faculties  are  necessarily  of  an  authoritative,  evident, 
external,  commanding  order.  Woman  has  to  bear  invisible  sway 
over  the  hidden  mechanism  of  the  heart;  and  her  endowments 
are  of  a  meek,  persuasive,  quiet,  and  subjective  kind  :  seen  rather 
in  result  than  in  action.  Man  rules  the  mind  of  the  world : 
woman  ils  heart. 

To  man  belongs  the  sway  of  force.  To  direct  and  use  actual 
strength,  whether  it  be  of  the  intellect  or  of  the  body,  is  his  pro- 


INTRODUCTORY   CHAPTER. 


vince.  It  is  his  to  tame  barbarism,  to  establish  law,  to  control 
thought,  to  develope  energy :  and  the  senate,  the  platform,  the 
mart,  the  pulpit,  and  the  battle-field,  are  his  scenes  of  action.  It 
is  his  to  explore,  to  analyse,  to  judge,  to  arrange,  to  provide.  It 
is  his  to  inquire,  to  test,  to  determine.  Exertion,  enterprise, 
action,  and  deliberation,  are  his  duties.  Reason  is  his  weapon : 
and  the  establishment  of  Truth  is  the  great  task  he  has  to 
perform. 

To  woman  belongs  the  sway  of  influence.  Her  province  is 
to  soften,  round  off,  smooth  down,  the  angularities  of  life  and 
conduct :  to  act  (gently,  but  unceasingly)  upon  the  swift-beating 
heart  of  the  world,  soothing  it  into  calmness  when  violent ;  mildly 
stimulating  it  into  action  when  torpid;  and  refining,  purifying 
and  exalting  its  passions  and  aspirations  when  excited.  Home  is 
her  empire,  and  affection  her  sceptre.  It  is  hers  to  endure,  to 
watch,  to  suggest,  to  inspirit,  to  reinvigorate,  to  sustain.  It  is 
hers  to  colour  and  perfume  and  beautify  the  way  of  life;  to  adorn 
existence,  and  to  make  it  musical.  It  is  hers  to  I'esist  and  coun- 
teract the  deadening  influences  of  the  world.  Man  goes  forth  to 
his  labour  day  after  day ;  he  performs  day  after  day  the  same 
cramping  round  of  duties :  it  is  woman's  office  to  preserve  him, 
from  becoming  a  mere  machine.  He  comes  in  contact  with 
villaiiy  and  selfishness  :  it  is  hers  to  keep  alive  in  his  bosom  the 
generous  flame  of  virtue.  He  falls  in  with  the  degraded  and 
deceiving :  it  is  hers  to  prevent  their  evil  influence  upon  him, 
and  to  keep  up  a  proper  estimate  of  humanity.  It  is  hers,  when 
the  world  has  disgusted  him  with  its  hoUowness,  to  restore  him 
by  the  tranquil  delights  of  home.  It  is  hers,  when  misfortune 
overtakes  him,  to  cheer  him  with  hope,  and  support  his  sinking 
spirit.  It  is  hers  to  preserve  in  their  purity  the  moral  sentiments 
of  his  nature.  It  is  hers,  while  intellectual  knowledge  makes  him 
wise,  by  moral  persuasion  to  render  him  good.  It  is  hers  at  all 
seasons  to  inspire  him  with  a  purifying  love  for  the  Beautiful,  and 
to  anchor  his  soul  firmly  in  the  everlasting  rock  of  Religion. 

I  repeat,  then,  that  woman's  sphere  requires  a  different  mental 
constitution  from  that  of  man,  not  an  inferior  one  :  and  very 
different  we  find  the  intellectual  faculties  of  the  sexes  to  be.  It 
Is  worth  our  while  to  note  a  few  of  these  peculiarities. 


INTRODUCTORY   CHAPTER. 


Looking  at  the  whole  spiritual  character,  we  see  some  such 
broad  distinctions  as  the  following. —  Man  is  bold,  enterprising, 
and  strong;  woman  cautious,  prudent,  and  steadfast.  Man  is  self- 
relying  and  self-possessed  ;  woman  timid,  clinging,  and  dependent. 
Man  is  suspicious  and  secret ;  woman  confiding.  Man  is  fearless ; 
■woman  apprehensive.  Man  arrives  at  truth  by  long  and  tedious 
study;  woman  by  intuition.  He  thinks;  she  feels.  He  reasons; 
she  sympathises.  He  has  courage  ;  she  patience.  He  soon 
despairs;  she  always  hopes.  The  strong  passions  are  his  ;  am- 
bition, love  of  conquest,  love  of  fame.  The  mild  affections  are 
hers ;  love  of  home,  love  of  virtue,  love  of  friends.  Intellect  is 
his  ;  heart  is  hers.  In  the  religious  sentiments  they  are  equally 
unlike.  His  is  the  religion  of  the  understanding ;  hers  the  reli- 
gion of  faith.  Man  must  have  a  creed ;  woman's  piety  is  inde- 
pendent of  all  rubrics. 

Or  taking  the  mere  intellectual  faculties  of  the  female  mind, 
apart  from  the  whole  spiritual  organization,  we  find  a  marked 
difference  from  those  of  man.  The  qualities  of  the  Female 
Intellect  seem  to  be  rather  negative  than  positive  :  they  appear  to 
be  fitted  more  for  passive  endurance  than  for  aggressive  exertion. 
They  can  grasp  less  ;  but  they  can  hold  longer.  Just  as  woman's 
physical  frame  is  formed  for  smaller  but  more  continuous  labour 
than  man's,  so  her  mental  constitution  seems  less  competent  to 
violent  than  to  sustained  action.  She  appears  to  have  inferior 
force,  but  greater  evenness  :  not  so  much  energy,  but  more  equa- 
bility, of  character. 

Woman's  intellectual  perceptions  are  infinitely  quicker  than 
man's.  She  sees  in  a  moment.  Incongruities,  resemblances,  dif- 
ferences, characteristics,  are  intuitively  and  instantly  perceived 
by  her.  The  whole  range  of  her  mental  faculties  appears  to  be 
apter,  readier,  quicker,  than  man's.  She  has  a  finer  perception 
of  colour;  a  more  correct  ear  for  tune;  a  truer  taste ;  a  readier 
sensibility  to  beauty  in  form  ;  a  more  sensitive  appreciation  of 
melody.  Man's  intellectual  perceptions  are  comparatively  slow. 
He  sees  farther,  but  his  vision  is  not  so  instantaneous.  I  think 
his  insight  into  essences  is  truer  than  her's  ;  but  I  believe  that 
she  has  a  belter  appreciation  of  surfaces.     She  sees  at  once,  and 


INTRODUCTORY  CHAPTER.  xvii 

is  satisfied  with  that ;  he  distrusts  first  appearances,  and  inquires 
into  their  essential  quahties. 

The  Poetical  Selections  which  form  the  bulk  of  this  work  will, 
I  think,  amply  illustrate  and  fully  prove  the  distinctions  which  I 
have  attempted  to  draw  in  the  preceding  paragraphs.  They  will 
show,  if  I  mistake  not,  that  while  Man's  intellect  is  meant  to 
make  the  world  stronger  and  wiser.  Woman's  is  intended  to 
make  it  purer  and  better.  The  reader  will  not  fail  to  notice  how 
rarely  our  Female  Poets  have  addressed  themselves  to  the  mere 
understanding,  and  on  the  other  hand  how  constantly  they  have 
sought  to  impress  the  feelings  of  the  race ;  how  little  they  liave 
endeavoured  to  increase  our  wisdom,  and  how  much  they  have 
laboured  to  promote  our  virtue.  It  is  for  man  to  ameliorate  our 
condition  ;  it  is  for  woman  to  amend  our  character.  Man's  Poet- 
ry teaches  us  Politics ;  Woman's,  Morality.  In  all  the  Poems 
contained  in  this  Volume,  it  would  be  difficult  to  find  a  passage 
written  to  accelerate  man's  political  advancement :  whilst  every 
page  will  display  some  effort  to  stimulate  his  moral  progress.  In 
one  place  we  shall  see  a  Katherine  Philips  exhibiting  the  de- 
ceitfulness  of  Pleasure  ;  in  another,  a  Mary  Chandler  proclaiming 
the  blessings  of  Temperance  ;  in  a  third,  a  Lady  Carew  enjoining 
the  duty  of  Forgiveness ;  in  a  fourth,  an  Amelia  Opie  teaching 
the  sinfulness  of  War ;  in  a  fifth,  a  Mary  Howitt  sweetly  sym- 
pathising with  the  wants  and  sufferings  of  the  Poor ;  in  all,  \v  e 
shall  find  a  cheerful  love  for  Humanity,  a  noble  trust  in  Virtue, 
and  a  hoping,  clinging,  earnest  Piety.  Woman's  mind  not  equal 
in  strength  to  man's  !  Can  we  venture  to  say  that  man's  mind 
is  equal  in  value  to  woman's  ? 

It  is  not,  however,  to  promote  a  rivalry  between  the  sexes  that 
these  pages  are  written.  They  aim,  not  at  separating  the  two 
half  minds  of  the  world,  but  at  making  them  act  in  concert  and 
unison.  Single,  they  are  incomplete ;  but  together  they  are 
powerful  for  every  kind  of  good. 

Man  without  woman  is   strong,  but  unenduring ;  courageous, 

but  impatient ;  enterprising,  but  incautious.      He  is  self-relying, 

Dut  easily  deceived  ;  confident,  but  soon  cast  down ;   undertakes 

much,  but  is  soon  wearied.     Left  to  itself,  his  hope  fails  almost 

3 


INTRODUCTORY  CHAPTER. 


at  its  birth  ;  his  faith  speedily  turns  to  doubt ;  his  mind  preya 
upon  itself;  he  becomes  gloomy,  suspicious,  and  misanthropical. 

On  the  other  hand,  woman  without  man  is  timid,  feeble,  ap- 
prehensive, and  defenceless.  The  first  shock  of  doubt  or 
affliction  overcomes  her ;  and  afterwards  she  hopes  beyond 
reason.  Evil  preys  upon  her  unresisted ;  she  confides  to  be 
deceived :  her  affections  become  idolatrous ;  her  sympathies, 
weaknesses  ;  and  her  religion  grows  into  superstition. 

Thus  the  perfect  mental  character  is  only  formed  by  the  union 
of  the  two  incomplete  parts.  United,  there  is  strength  with 
endurance,  enterprise  with  caution,  courage  with  patience.  Self- 
reliance  is  moderated  by  dependence.  Thought  is  aided  by  feel- 
ing. Reason  is  confirmed  by  sympathy.  Reliance  links  itself 
with  belief,  ambition  with  love,  faith  with  piety  ;  despondency 
meets  with  cheerfulness,  affliction  with  consolation,  and  despair 
with  hope. 

It  is  our  policy,  therefore,  no  less  than  our  duty,  to  admit  and 
develop,  in  their  fullest  extent,  the  noble  intellectual  gifts  which 
nature  has  bestowed  on  woman.  Urged  by  a  blinding  pride,  or 
a  ridiculous  envy,  we  have  for  ages  denied  her  right  to  share 
with  us  the  throne  of  intellect ;  and,  as  has  before  been  urged, 
we  have  paid  a  heavy  penalty  for  our  folly.  Let  us  amend  our 
fault  for  the  future.  Let  us  give  woman's  mind  that  free  scope 
for  its  exertions  which  we  have  so  long  refused  it.  And  let  us 
gratefully  recognise  in  woman,  a  partner,  not  a  rival,  in  the 
mental  race  ;  a  fellow  worker,  and  that  a  pure  and  courageous 
one,  in  the  great  task  of  enlightening  and  elevating  the  whole 
family  of  man ! 

Frederick  Rowton. 


FEMALE    POETS 


GREAT    BRITAIN. 


JULIANA    BERNERS. 
1460. 

The  first  British  Poetess  of  whom  we  have  any  record  is  the 
lady  whose  name  is  mentioned  above ;  Juliana,  daughter  of  Sir 
James  Berners,  or  Barnes,  of  Roding,  in  Essex,  Knight;  and 
sister  of  Richard,  first  Lord  Berners.  She  flourished  in  the 
middle  of  the  fifteenth  century ;  about  fifty  years  after  Chaucer 
and  Gower.  She  received  what  at  that  time  was  considered  a 
learned  education ;  and  eventually  became  Prioress  of  Sopwell 
Nunnery,  near  St.  Albans.  Her  literary  productions  consist  of 
three  tracts,  one  on  Hunting,  another  on  Hawking,  and  the  third 
on  Armory,  or  Heraldry  :  they  are  to  be  found  in  The  Booh  of 
St.  Albans,  printed  at  Westminster,  by  Wynkyn  de  Worde, 
1496. 

Her  style  is  excessively  coarse  and  unfeminine,  and  wholly  jl 

inconsistent  with  her  sacred  calling;    but  the  barbarism  of  the  |l 

times  is  a  sufficient,  if  not  a  complete  excuse  for  her.     From  the  j 

era  of  Richard  the  Third  much  refinement  cannot  be  expected.  !: 

The   tract  on   Hunting,  which    is   the  only  one   in  rhyme,  f 

furnishes  the  following  short  extract :  quite  long  enough,  I  am 
sure,  in  the  opinion  of  the  reader.  j 

4  c  25  I 

I 


OPENING    OF    THE    POEM. 

Mi  dere  sones,  where  ye  fare,  be  frith,  or  by  fell. 

Take  good  hede  in  his  tyme  how  Tristrem  wol  tell ; 

How  many  maner  bestes  of  venery  there  were, 

Listenes  now  to  oure  Dame,  and  ye  shullen  here. 

Ffowre  maner  of  bestes  of  venery  there  are. 

The  first  of  hem  is  a  hert,  the  second  is  an  hare ; 

The  boor  is  one  of  iho, 

The  wolff,  and  no  mo. 

And  whereso  ye  comen  in  play  or  in  place. 

Now  shal  I  tel  you  which  ben  bestes  of  chace ; 

One  of  tho  a  buk,  another  a  doo, 

The  ffox  and  the  marteryn,  and  the  wilde  roo ; 

And  ye  shall,  my  dere  sones,  other  bestes  all, 

Where  so  ye  hem  finde,  rascall  hem  call, 

In  frith  or  in  fell. 

Or  in  fforest,  y  yow  tell. 

And  to  speke  of  the  hert,  if  ye  wil  hit  lere. 

Ye  shall  cal  him  a  calfe  at  the  first  yere ; 

The  seconde  yere  a  broket,  so  shal  he  be. 

The  third  yere  a  spayard,  lerneth  this  at  me ; 

The  iiii  yere  calles  hem  a  stagge,  be  eny  way 

The  fift  yere  a  grete  stagge,  my  dame  bade  you  say. 


The  Epilogue  to  this  book  of  Hunting  is  not  without  merit. 

TO    HAVE    A    FAITHFUL    FRIEND. 

A  faithful  friend  would  I  fain  find. 

To  find  him  there  he  might  be  found ; 
But  now  is  the  world  wext  so  unkind. 

That  friendship  is  fall  to  the  ground. 
Now  a  friend  I  have  found. 

That  I  will  neilher  ban  ne  curse: 
But  of  all  friends  in  field  or  town. 

Ever  gramercy  mine  own  purse. 


My  purse  it  is  my  privy  wife : 

(This  song  I  dare  both  sing  and  say  :) 
It  parteth  men  of  muehe  strife, 

When  every  man  for  himself  shall  pay. 
As  I  ride  in  rich  array, 

For  gold  and  silver  men  will  me  flourish  ; 
By  this  matter  I  dare  well  say. 

Ever  gramercy  mine  own  purse. 

As  I  ride  with  gold  so  rede, 

And  have  to  do  with  landys  law, 
Men  for  my  money  will  make  me  speed, 

And  for  my  goods  they  will  me  knowe: 
More  and  less  to  me  will  draw 

Both  the  better  and  the  worse  ; 
By  this  matter  I  say  in  sawe  * 

Ever  gramercy  mine  own  purse. 

It  fell  by  me  upon  a  time, 

As  it  hath  done  by  many  one  mo, 
My  horse,  my  neat,  my  sheep,  my  swine. 

And  all  my  goods,  they  tell  me  fro: 
I  went  to  my  friends  and  told  them  so. 

And  home  again  they  bade  me  truss  : 
I  said  again  when  I  was  wo, 

Ever  gramercy  mine  own  purse. 

Therefore  I  rede  you,  sires  all. 

To  assay  your  friends  or  you  have  need  ; 
For  an  ye  come  down,  and  have  a  fall. 

Full  few  of  them  for  you  will  grede. 
Therefore  assay  them  every  one. 

Both  the  better  and  the  worse. — 
Our  Lord,  that  shope  that  both  sun  and  moon, 

Send  us  spending  in  our  purse  ! 

*  Proverbially. 


28  QUEEN  ANNE  BOLEYN 


QUEEN  ANNE  BOLEYN. 

1507—1536. 

The  following  pathetic  and  womanly  verses  have  been  ascribed 
to  this  ill-fated  lady.  Sir  John  Hawkins,  in  his  History  of  Music, 
vol.  iii.  p.  30,  says  that  they  were  communicated  to  him  by  "  a 
very  judicious  antiquary,  lately  deceased."  Whether  this  state- 
ment is  sufficient,  however,  to  establish  Anne  Boleyn's  claim  to 
the  authorship  of  the  production,  the  reader  musi  decide.  I 
believe  that  the  verses  have  never  been  attributed  to  any  other 
person. 

Defiled  is  my  name  full  sore. 

Through  cruel  spite  and  false  report. 
That  I  may  say,  for  evermore. 

Farewell,  my  joy  !  adieu,  comfort! 
For  wrongfully  ye  judge  of  me, 

Unto  my  fame  a  mortal  wound ; 
Say  what  ye  list,  it  will  not  be, 

Ye  seek  for  that  cannot  be  found. 

O  Death !  rock  me  on  sleep  ! 

Bring  me  a  quiet  rest: 
Let  pass  my  vei-y  guiltless  ghost 

Out  of  my  careful  breast: 
Toll  on  the  passing  bell. 
Ring  out  the  doleful  knell, 
Let  the  sound  my  death  tell, 

For  I  must  die, 

There  is  no  remedy, 

For  now  I  die. 


QUEEN  ANNE  BOLEYN.  29 


My  paines  who  can  express  ? 

Alas  !  they  are  so  strong, 
My  dolour  will  not  suffer  strength 

My  life  for  to  prolong : 
Toll  on  the  passing  bell,  &c. 

Alone,  in  prison  strong, 

I  wail  ray  destiny  ; 
Wo  worth  this  cruel  hap  that  I 

Should  taste  this  misery. 
Toll  on  the  passing  bell,  &c. 

Farewell  my  pleasures  past. 
Welcome  my  present  pain  ; 

I  feel  my  torments  so  increase, 
That  life  cannot  remain. 

Cease  now  the  passing  bell. 

Rung  is  my  doleful  knell. 

For  the  sound  my  death  doth  tell : 
Death  doth  draw  nigh, 
Sound  my  end  dolefully, 
For  now  I  die. 


It  is  as  well,  perhaps,  to  say  that  in  the  above  Lines,  the 
spelling  is  modernised ;  and  that  the  same  course  is  followed,  ai 
far  as  possible,  in  all  the  extracts  from  the  older  writers. 


30  ANNE   ASKEWE. 


ANNE  ASKEWE. 
1520—1546. 

Anne  Askewe  was  the  daughter  of  William  Askewe,  or 
Ayscough,  of  Kelsey,  in  the  county  of  Lincoln ;  and  was  born  in 
the  year  1520.  Her  natural  talents  were  great,  and  she  received 
a  learned  education.  Her  family  followed  the  Roman  Catholic 
faith,  and  by  her  father's  desire  (although  against  her  own 
inclination)  she  married  a  Roman  Catholic  gentleman,  named 
Ryme.  Her  mind,  always  of  a  deeply  religious  cast,  after  much 
thought  became  deeply  impressed  with  the  belief  that  the  Roman 
Catholic  religion  was  not  the  true  one,  and  she  abjured  it  in 
favour  of  Protestantism.  Upon  this,  her  husband  drove  her 
from  his  house,  and  she  found  refuge  with  some  friends  in 
London.  While  in  that  city,  she  sought  to  interest  the  King 
(Henry  the  Eighth)  in  her  behalf,  through  Queen  Katherine 
(Parr) ;  but  in  vain.  Gardiner,  Bishop  of  Winchester,  caused 
her  to  be  seized  and  committed  to  prison  on  a  charge  of  heresy. 
After  a  short  detention,  however,  she  was  liberated.  But  in  a 
little  while  she  was  again  arrested,  thrown  into  the  Tower,  found 
guilty  of  heresy,  and  condemned  to  die  at  the  stake. 

Her  demeanour,  throughout  the  whole  proceedings,  was  in  the 
highest  degree  heroic ;  and  affords  a  striking  proof  of  the  strength 
of  the  religious  sentiment  in  woman.  A  contemporary  writer 
(Mr.  Loud,  of  Lincoln's  Inn)  says  of  her — "I  must  needs  confess 
of  Mrs.  Askewe,  now  departed  to  the  Lord,  that  the  day  afore  her 
execution,  and  the  same  day  also,  she  had  an  angel's  countenance 
and  a  smiling  face ;  though  when  the  hour  of  darkness  came, 
she  was  so  racked,  that  she  could  not  stand,  but  was  holden  up 
between  two  Serjeants."  On  being  fastened  to  the  stake,  she 
was  asked  for  the  last  time  to  recant;  the  royal  pardon  being 


offered  her  if  s?ie  would  do  so.  Her  reply  was,  "  I  do  not  come 
here  to  deny  my  Lord  and  Master."  The  faggots  Avere  thereupon 
lighted,  and  she  was  burnt  to  ashes.  This  was  in  1546,  in  the 
twenty-sixth  year  of  her  age. 

After  her  last  examination  in  Newgate,  she  composed  the 
following  lines :  the  true  martyr  spirit  is  visible  in  every  word 
of  them  : — 


Like  as  the  armed  knight 
Appointed  to  the  field. 

With  this  world  will  I  fight, 
And  faith  shall  be  my  shield. 

Faith  is  that  weapon  strong 
Which  will  not  fail  at  need ; 

My  foes  therefore  among 
Therewith  will  I  proceed. 

As  it  is  had  in  strength 

And  force  of  Christes  way, 

It  will  prevail  at  length, 

Though  all  the  devils  say  nay. 

Faith  in  the  fathers  old 
Obtained  righteousness. 

Which  make  me  very  bold 
To  fear  no  world's  distress. 

I  now  rejoice  in  heart. 
And  hope  bid  me  do  so, 

For  Christ  will  take  my  part 
And  ease  me  of  my  woe. 

Thou  say'st.  Lord,  whoso  knock, 
To  them  wilt  thou  attend ; 

Undo  therefore  the  lock, 
And  thy  strong  power  send. 


32  ANNE  •  ASKEWE. 


More  enemies  now  I  have 
Than  hairs  upon  my  head; 

Let  them  not  me  deprave, 
But  fight  thou  in  my  stead. 

On  thee  my  care  I  cast, 
For  all  their  cruel  spite, 

I  set  not  by  their  hast, 
For  thou  art  my  delight. 

I  am  not  she  that  list 

My  anchor  to  let  fall; 
For  every  drizzling  mist, 

My  ship  substantial. 

Not  oft  I  use  to  write 

In  prose  nor  yet  in  rhyme, 

Yet  will  I  show  one  sight 
That  I  saw  in  my  time. 

I  saw  a  royal  throne 

Where  Justice  should  have  sit. 
But  in  her  stead  was  one 

Of  moody  cruel  wit. 

Absorb'd  was  righteousness 
As  of  the  raging  flood : 

Satan  in  his  excess 

Suck'd  up  the  guiUless  blood. 

Then  thought  I,  Jesus,  Lord, 
When  thou  shalt  judge  us  all, 

Hard  is  it  to  record 

On  these  men  what  will  fall. 

Yet  Lord,  I  thee  desire. 
For  that  they  do  to  me. 

Let  them  not  taste  the  hire 
Of  their  iniquity ! 


It  would  be  difficult,  I  think,  to  find  a  more  illustrious  instance 
of  consistent  Christian  faith  than  is  displayed  in  these  Lines. 
They  present  a  noble  evidence  of  woman's  exalted  courage  in 
the  hour  of  trial,  and  of  the  pure  and  forgiving  spirit  with  which 
she  can  endure  persecution. 


34  QUEEN   ELIZABETH. 


QUEEN   ELIZABETH. 
1533—1603. 

Among  the  vanities  of  this  royal  lady,  the  most  innocent,  per- 
haps, was  her  desire  of  shining  as  a  Poet :  whether  she  does  sliine 
or  not,  the  present  writer  will  not  undertake  to  determine.  That 
she  gained  very  extravagant  praises  from  contemporary  critics  is 
not  perhaps  surprising  :  Royalty  enters  into  the  lists  of  Literature 
so  rarely,  that  a  few  extra-sweet  plaudits  may  be  pardoned  when 
it  makes  its  appearance  there. 

I  transcribe  first  the  Lines  written  by  the  Royal  Poet  when  a 
Prisoner  at  Woodstock. 

Oh,  Fortune  !  how  thy  restless  wavering  state 

Hath  fraught  with  cares  my  troubled  wit ! 
Witness  this  present  prison,  whither  fate 

Could  bear  me,  and  the  jovs  I  quit: 
Thou  causedest  the  guilty  to  be  loos'd 
From  bands,  wherein  are  innocents  inclos'd  : 
Causing  the  guiltless  to  be  strait  reserv'd, 
And  freeing  those  that  death  had  well  deserv'd. 
But  by  her  envy  can  be  nothing  wrought. 
So  God  send  to  my  foes  all  they  have  thought. 

Puttenham,  in  his  ^rt  of  Enc^Jish  Poesy,  speaking  of  the 
rhetorical  figure  Exargasia,  or  the  Gorgeous,  says,  "  I  find  none 
example  in  English  metre  so  Avell  maintaining  this  figure  as  this 
ditty  of  her  Majesty's  own  making,  passing  sweet  and  harmoni- 
cal :  which  figure  being,  as  his  very  original  name  purporteth, 
the  most  beautiful  and  gorgeous  of  all  others,  it  asketh  in  reason 
to  be  reserved  for  a  last  compliment,  and  decyphered  by  a  lady's 


pen,  herself  being  the  most  beautiful,  or  rather  beauty  of  queens." 
It  is  to  be  feared  that  Mr.  Pultenham's  loyalty  sent  to  sleep  his 
taste. 

The  poem  relates  to  the  plotters  in  favour  of  Mary,  Queen  of 
Scots. 


The  doubt  of  future  foes 

Exiles  my  present  joy, 
And  wit  me  warns  to  shun  such  snares 

As  threaten  mine  annoy. 
For  falsehood  now  doth  flow. 
And  subject  faith  doth  ebb  ; 
Which  would  not  be  if  reason  ruled, 

Or  wisdom  weav'd  the  web. 
But  clouds  of  toys  untried 

Do  cloak  aspiring  minds  ; 
Which  turn  to  rain  of  late  repent, 

By  course  of  changed  winds. 
The  top  of  hope  suppos'd 

The  root  of  ruth  will  be  ; 
And  fruitless  all  their  grafi'ed  guiles. 

As  shordy  ye  shall  see. 
Then  dazzled  eyes  with  pride. 
Which  great  ambition  blinds. 
Shall  be  unseal'd  by  worthy  wights, 
Whose  foresight  falsehood  finds. 
The  Daughter  of  Debate,* 

That  eke  discord  doth  sow. 
Shall  reap  no  gain  where  former  rule 

Hath  taught  still  peace  to  grow. 
No  foreign  banish'd  wight 

Shall  anchor  in  this  port ; 
Our  realm  it  brooks  no  strangers'  force. 
Let  them  elsewhere  resort. 


Mary,  Queen  of  Scots. 


36  QUEEN    ELIZABETH. 


Our  rusty  sword  with  rest 

Shall  first  his  edge  employ, 
Shall  poll  their  tops  that  seek 

Such  change,  and  gape  for  joy. 

It  would  seem  that  her  majesty — 

"  Whose  realm  would  brook  no  stranger  force," 
had  a  heart  of  more  yielding  materials.  Tyrant  as  she  was, 
Queen  Elizabeth  did  homage  to  a  greater  tyrant  still, — the  name 
of  him — Love.  The  candid  critic  must  confess  that  "  the  beauty 
of  queens"  whines  somewhat  under  the  influence  of  la  belle 
passion.  The  following  woe-begone  stanzas  were  written  on 
the  departure  of  some  favourite  from  court : — 

I  grieve  and  dare  not  show  my  discontent ; 

I  love,  and  yet  am  forced  to  seem  to  hate ; 
I  do,  yet  dare  not  say  I  ever  meant ; 

I  seem  stark  mute,  but  inwardly  do  prate  : 
I  am,  and  not;   I  freeze,  and  yet  am  burn'd, 
Since  from  myself,  my  other  self  I  turn'd. 

My  care  is  like  my  shadow  in  the  sun, 
Follows  me  flying,  flies  when  I  pursue  it ; 

Stands  and  lies  by  me,  does  what  I  have  done ; 
This  too  familiar  care  does  make  me  rue  it : 

No  means  I  find  to  rid  him  from  my  breast, 

Till  by  the  end  of  things  it  be  supprest. 

Some  gentler  passions  slide  into  my  mind, 
For  I  am  soft  and  made  of  melting  snow  ; 

Or  be  more  cruel,  Love,  and  so  be  kind, 
Let  me  or  float  or  sink,  be  high  or  low : 

Or  let  me  live  with  some  more  sweet  content, 

Or  die,  and  so  forget  what  love  e'er  meant. 

Signed,  "  Finis,  Eliza.  Regina,  upon 
Moun 's  departure." 


QUEEN  ELIZABETH.  37 


One  cannot  read  this  passage  without  feeling  that  whatever 
may  have  been  Queen  Elizabeth's  poetical  powers,  she  at  least 
had  not  the  faculty  of  self-portraiture-  For  when  she  says  of 
herself — 

"That  she  is  soft,  and  made  oi melting  snow" 

one  cannot,  with  all  the  charity  in  the  world,  coincide  with  her. 
Had  the  royal  Limner  compared  herself  to  ice  instead  of  snow, 
she  might  have  won  our  assent  to  her  proposition  :  but  "  melting 

snow" no,  no !   that  is  not  by  any  means   the  verdict  of 

History ! 


MARY,  COUNTESS  OF  PEMBROKE. 

1560—1621. 

This  lady  was  a  sister  of  Sir  Philip  Sidney,  and  appears  to 
have  been  a  most  excellent  and  accomplished  person.  Spenser 
mentions  her  as 

"most  resembling,  both  in  shape  and  spirit, 

Her  brother  dear:" 

and  Sir  Philip  dedicated  his  Arcadia  to  her. 

She  wrote  largely,  both  in  prose  and  verse,  and  was  a  most 
generous  patron  of  literature. 

Her  poems  display  no  inconsiderable  amount  of  learning,  and 
are  characterised  by  much  elegance  and  grace.  She  assisted  her 
brother  in  a  translation  of  the  Psalms,  which  was  first  printed  so 
recently  as  1823. 

A  DIALOGUE 
Between  two  Shepherds,  Thenol  and  Piers,  in  praise  of  Astrcea. 

THENOT. 

I  sing  divine  Astraea's  praise, 
0  Muses !  help  my  Avits  to  raise, 
And  heave  my  verses  higher. 

PIERS. 

Thou  need'st  the  truth  but  plainly  tell, 
AVhich  much  I  doubt  thou  can'st  not  well, 
Thou  art  so  oft  a  liar. 


MARY,  COUNTESS  OF  PEMBROKE.  39 


THENOT. 

If  in  my  song  no  more  I  show. 
Than  heaven  and  earth  and  sea  do  know, 
Then  truly  I  have  spoken. 

PIERS. 

Sufficeth  not  no  more  to  name  ; 
But  being  no  less,  the  like,  the  same, 
Else  laws  of  truth  be  broken. 

THENOT. 

Then  say  she  is  so  good,  so  fair. 
With  all  the  earth  she  may  compare. 
Not  Momus'  self  denying. 

PIERS. 

Compare  may  think  where  likeness  holds, 
Nought  like  to  her  the  earth  enfolds, 
I  look'd  to  find  you  lying. 

THENOT. 

Astraea  sees  with  Wisdom's  sight, 
Astraea  works  by  Virtue's  might, 
And  jointly  both  do  stay  in  her. 

PIERS. 

Nay,  take  from  them,  her  hand,  her  mind, 
The  one  is  lame,  the  other  blind ; 
Shall  still  your  lying  stain  her  ? 

THENOT. 

Soon  as  Astraea  shows  her  face. 
Straight  every  ill  avoids  the  place. 
And  every  good  aboundeth. 

PIERS. 

Nay,  long  before  her  face  doth  show. 
The  last  doth  come,  the  first  doth  go  ; 
How  loud  this  lie  resoundeth. 


40  MARY,  COUNTESS  OF  PEMBROKE. 


THENOT. 

Astraea  is  our  chiefest  joy, 
Our  chiefest  guard  against  annoy, 
Our  chiefest  wealth,  our  treasure. 

PIERS. 

Where  chiefest  are,  there  others  be, 
To  us  none  else  but  only  she ; 

When  wilt  thou  speak  in  measure  ? 

THENOT. 

Astraea  may  be  justly  said, 
A  field  in  flowery  robe  array'd. 
In  season  freshly  springing. 

PIERS. 

That  spring  endures  but  shortest  time, 
This  never  leaves  Astraea's  clime ; 
Thou  liest  instead  of  singing. 

THENOT. 

As  heavenly  light  that  guides  the  day. 
Right  so  doth  shine  each  lovely  ray. 
That  from  Astraja  flieth. 

PIERS. 

Nay,  darkness  oft  that  light  inclouds, 
Astraea's  beams  no  darkness  shrouds  ; 
How  loudly  Thenot  lieth  ! 

THENOT. 

Aslraea  rightly  term  I  may, 
A  manly  palm,  a  maiden  bay. 
Her  verdure  never  dying. 

PIERS. 

Palm  oft  is  crooked,  bay  is  low ; 
She  still  upright,  still  high  doth  grow ; 
Good  Thenot,leave  thy  lying  ! 


MARY,  COUNTESS  OF  PEIVIBROKE.  41 


THENOT. 

Then,  Piers,  of  friendship  tell  me  why, 
My  meaning  true,  my  words  should  lie, 
And  strive  in  vain  to  raise  her  ? 

PIERS. 

Words  from  conceit  do  only  rise. 
Above  conceit  her  honour  flies ; 
But  silence,  nought  can  praise  her. 


CHORUS  FROM  THE  TRAGEDY  OF  ANTONY. 

1595. 

The  boiling  tempest  still 
Makes  not  sea-waters  foam, 
Nor  still  the  northern  blast 
Disquiets  quiet  streams, 
Nor  who,  his  chest  to  fill. 
Sails  to  the  morning  beams, 
On  waves  wind  tosseth  fast, 
Still  keeps  his  ship  from  home. 

Nor  Jove  still  down  doth  cast, 
Inflamed  with  bloody  ire, 
On  man,  on  tree,  on  hill, 
His  darts  of  thundering  fire  : 
Nor  still  the  heat  doth  last 
On  face  of  parched  plain, 
Nor  wrinkled  cold  doth  still 
On  frozen  furrows  reign. 

D* 


42 

1 
MARY,  COUNTESS  OF  PEMBROKE. 

But  still  as  long  as  we 

In  this  low  world  remain, 

Mishaps,  our  daily  mates. 

Our  lives  do  entertain  ; 

And  woes  which  bear  no  dates, 

Still  perch  upon  our  heads  ; 

None  go,  but  straight  will  be 

Some  greater  in  their  steads. 

Nature  made  us  not  free, 

When  first  she  made  us  live  ; 

When  we  began  to  be. 

To  be  began  our  woe  ; 

Which  growing  evermore. 

As  dying  life  doth  grow. 

Do  more  and  more  us  grieve. 

And  tire  us  more  and  more. 

0  blest  who  never  breath'd. 

Or  whom,  with  pity  moved. 

Death  from  his  cradle  'reav'd, 

And  swaddled  in  his  grave. 

And  blessed  also  he 

(As  curse  may  blessing  have), 

Who  low,  and  living  free. 

No  prince's  charge  hath  prov'd. 

By  stealing  sacred  fire. 

Prometheus,  then  unwise. 

Provoking  gods  to  ire. 

The  heap  of  ills  did  stir ; 

And  sickness,  pale  and  cold, 

Our  end  which  onward  spur 

To  plague  our  hands,  too  bold, 

To  filch  the  wealth  of  skies. 

In  heaven's  hate  since  then. 

Of  ill  with  ill  enchain'd. 

MARY,  COUNTESS  OF  PEMBROKE.  43 

We  race  of  mortal  men 
Full  fraught  our  breasts  have  borne ; 
And  thousand,  thousand  woes 
Our  heavenly  souls  now  thorn, 
Which  free  before  from  those, 
No  earthly  passion  pain'd. 

War  and  war's  bitter  cheer 
Now  long  time  with  us  stay, 
And  fear  of  hated  foe 
Still,  still  increaseth  sore. 
Our  harms  worse  daily  grow  : 
Less  yesterday  they  were 
Than  now,  and  will  be  more 
To-morrow  than  to-day. 


That  this  lady  was  much  esteemed  in  her  own  day,  we  may 
fairly  infer  from  her  Epitaph  :  written  by  Ben  Jonson  : 


EPITAPH. 

Underneath  this  sable  hearse 
Lies  the  subject  of  all  verse, 
Sidney's  sister,  Pembroke's  mother ; 
Death  !  ere  thou  hast  slain  another 
Learn'd,  and  fair,  and  good  as  she. 
Time  shall  throw  a  dart  at  thee. 


44  ELIZABETH  MELVILL. 


ELIZABETH    MELVILL, 

1603, 

Was  daughter  of  Sir  James  Melvill  of  Halhill,  and  wife  of 
Colvill  of  Culross.  She  wrote  Ane  Godlie  Breame,  compiled 
in  Scottish  metre,  the  first  edition  of  which  appeared  at  Edin- 
burgh in  1603.  In  the  following  quotation,  the  language  has 
been  Anglicised. 

FROM  ANE  GODLIE  DREAME. 

I  looked  down,  and  saw  a  pit  most  black. 
Most  full  of  smoke,  and  flaming  fire  most  fell ; 
That  uglj'  sight  made  me  to  fly  aback, 
I  fear'd  to  hear  so  many  shout  and  yell : 
I  him  besought  that  he  the  truth  would  tell — 
Is  this,  said  I,  the  Papists'  purging  place, 
Where  they  affirm  that  silly  souls  do  dwell. 
To  purge  their  sin,  before  they  rest  in  peace  ? 

The  brain  of  man  most  surely  did  invent 
That  purging  place,  he  answer'd  me  again  : 
For  greediness  together  they  consent 
To  say  that  souls  in  torment  may  remain, 
Till  gold  and  goods  relieve  them  of  their  pain. 
O  spiteful  sprites  that  did  the  same  begin  ! 
O  blinded  beasts,  your  thoughts  are  all  in  vain. 
My  blood  alone  did  save  thy  soul  from  sin. 


ELIZABETH  MELVILL.  45 


This  pit  is  Hell,  where  through  thou  now  must  go, 
There  is  thy  way  that  leads  thee  to  the  land  : 
Now  play  the  man,  thou  need'st  not  tremble  so, 
For  I  shall  help  and  hold  thee  by  the  hand. 
Alas  !  said  I,  I  have  no  force  to  stand. 
For  fear  I  faint  to  see  that  ugly  sight ; 
How  can  I  come  among  that  baleful  band? 
Oh,  help  me  now,  I  have  no  force  nor  might ! 

Oft  have  I  heard  that  they  that  enter  there 
In  this  great  gulf,  shall  never  come  again : 
Courage,  said  he,  have  I  not  bought  thee  dear  ? 
My  precious  blood  it  was  not  shed  in  vain. 
I  saw  this  place,  my  soul  did  taste  this  pain. 
Or  ere  I  went  into  my  Father's  gloire  ; 
Through  must  thou  go,  but  thou  shalt  not  remain ; 
Thou  needs't  not  fear,  for  I  shall  go  before. 

I  am  content  to  do  thy  whole  command, 
Said  I  again,  and  did  him  fast  embrace: 
Then  lovingly  he  held  me  by  the  hand, 
And  in  we  went  into  that  fearful  place. 
Hold  fast  thy  grip,  said  he,  in  any  case 
Let  me  not  slip,  whatever  thou  shalt  see  ; 
Dread  not  the  death,  but  stoutly  forward  press 
For  Death  nor  Hell  shall  never  vanquish  thee. 

His  words  so  sweet  did  cheer  my  heavy  heart. 
Incontinent  I  cast  my  care  aside ; 
Courage,  said  he,  play  not  a  coward's  part. 
Though  thou  be  weak,  yet  in  my  strength  confide. 
I  thought  me  blest  to  have  so  good  a  guide, 
Though  I  was  weak  I  knew  that  he  was  strong ; 
Under  his  wings  I  thought  me  for  to  hide. 
If  any  there  should  press  to  do  me  wrong. 

Into  that  Pit,  when  I  did  enter  in, 

I  saw  a  sight  which  made  my  heart  aghast ; 


46  ELIZABETH  MELVILL. 


Poor  damned  souls,  toi-mentod  sore  for  sin, 
In  flaming  fire  were  burning  fierce  and  fast : 
And  ugly  sprites,  and  as  we  thought  them  past, 
My  heart  grew  faint  and  I  began  to  tire  ; 
Ere  I  perceived,  one  seized  me  at  last 
And  held  me  high  above  a  flaming  fire. 

The  fire  was  great,  the  heat  did  pierce  me  sore, 
My  faith  was  weak,  my  grip  was  wondrous  small, 
I  trembled  fast,  my  fear  grew  more  and  more, 
My  hands  did   shake  that  I  him  held  withal. 
At  length  they  loos'd,  then  they  began  to  fall, 
I  cried,  O  Lord !  and  caught  him  fast  again  ; 
Lord  Jesus,  come  !  and  lake  me  out  of  thrall : 
Courage,  said  he,  now  thou  art  past  the  pain. 

With  this  great  fear,  I  staggered  and  woke. 

Crying,  O  Lord  !  Lord  Jesus  come  again! 

But  after  this  no  kind  of  rest  I  took, 

I  press'd  to  sleep,  but  diat  was  all  in  vain. 

I  would  have  dream'd  of  pleasure  after  pain. 

Because  I  know  I  shall  it  find  at  last: 

God  grant  my  guide  may  still  with  me  remain, 

It  is  to  come  that  I  believed  was  past. 


LADY  ELIZABETH  CAREW.  47 


LADY  ELIZABETH  CAREW. 
1613. 

Who  this  lady  was  is  not  altogether  certain.  She  is  gene- 
rally understood  to  have  been  the  wife  of  Sir  Henry  Carew, 
or  Gary.  She  was  a  lady  of  great  accomplishments,  and  was 
called,  by  John  Davis,  of  Hereford,  in  the  dedication  prefixed  to 
his  Muses'  Sacrifice,  or  Divine  Meditations,  "a  darling,  as  well 
as  patroness,  of  the  muses." 

The  chief,  indeed  the  only,  work  attributed  to  her  is  The 
Tragedy  of  Mariam,  the  Fair  Queen  of  Jewry,  written  by  that 
learned,  virtuotts,  and  truly  noble  lady,  E.G.,  1613;  a  play 
abounding  in  fine  womanly  touches  of  feeling  and  sentiment.  I 
extract  the 


CHORUS    TO    THE    FOURTH    ACT. 

The  fairest  action  of  our  human  life 
Is  scorning  to  revenge  an  injury: 
For  who  forgives  without  a  further  strife, 
His  adversary's  heart  doth  to  him  tie. 
And  'tis  a  firmer  conquest,  truly  said, 
To  win  the  heart,  than  overthrow  the  head. 

If  we  a  worthy  enemy  do  find, 

To  yield  to  worth  it  must  be  nobly  done ; 
But  if  of  baser  metal  be  his  mind, 

In  base  revenge  there  is  no  honour  won. 
Who  would  a  worthy  courage  overthrow. 
And  who  would  wrestle  with  a  worthless  foe  ? 


48  LADY  ELIZABETH  CAREW. 

We  say  our  hearts  are  great  and  cannot  yield ; 

Because  they  cannot  yield  it  proves  them  poor ; 
Great  hearts  are  task'd  beyond  their  power,  but  seld* 
The  weakest  lion  will  the  loudest  roar. 
Truth's  school  for  certain  doth  tliis  same  allow, 
High-heartedness  doth  sometimes  teach  to  bow. 

A  noble  heart  doth  teach  a  A-irtuous  scorn. 

To  scorn  to  owe  a  duty  overlong ; 
To  scorn  to  be  for  benefits,  forborne, 
To  scorn  a  lie,  to  scorn  to  do  a  wrong. 
To  scorn  to  bear  an  injury  in  mind, 
To  scorn  a  free-born  heart  slave-like  to  bind. 

But  if  for  wrongs  we  needs  revenge  must  have, 
Then  be  our  vengeance  of  the  noblest  kind ; 
Do  we  his  body  from  our  fury  save. 

And  let  our  hate  prevail  against  our  mind  ? 
What  can  'gainst  him  a  greater  vengeance  be, 
Than  make  his  foe  more  worthy  far  than  he  ? 

Had  Mariam  scorn'd  to  leave  a  due  unpaid, 

She  would  to  Herod  then  have  paid  her  love  ; 
And  not  have  been  by  sullen  passion  sway'd. 
To  fix  her  thoughts  all  injury  above 
Is  virtuous  pride.     Had  Mariam  thus  been  proud, 
Long  famous  life  to  her  had  been  allow'd. 

*  Seldom. 


LADY  MARY  WROTH, 


1621, 


Was  the  daughter  of  Robert,  Earl  of  Leicester,  (a  younger  bro- 
ther of  Sir  Philip  Sidney),  and  the  wife  of  Sir  Robert  Wroth. 
In  1621  she  published  a  romance,  called  Urania,  interspersed 
with  poetry.  It  was  to  Lady  Wroth  that  Ben  Jonson  dedicated 
The  Alchyraist. 

From  the  romance  to  which  I  have  alluded,  I  make  the  foUow- 
inw  selections. — 


Who  can  blame  me  if  I  love. 

Since  Love  before  the  world  did  move  ? 

When  I  lov'd  not,  I  despair'd. 

Scarce  for  handsomeness  I  car'd ; 

Since  so  much  I  am  refined, 

As  new-framed  of  state  and  mind, 

Who  can  blame  me  if  I  love. 

Since  Love  before  the  world  did  move  ? 

Some  in  truth  of  Love  beguil'd. 
Have  him  blind  and  childish  styl'd  ; 
But  let  none  in  these  persist. 
Since  so  judging  judgment  miss'd. 
Who  can  blame  me  ? 


Love  in  chaos  did  appear  ; 
When  nothing  was,  yet  he  seem'd  clear 
Nor  when  light  could  be  descried, 
To  his  crown  a  light  was  tied. 
Who  can  blame  me  ? 


50  LADY  MARY  WROTH. 


Love  is  truth  and  doth  delight, 
Whereas  Honour  shines  most  bright : 
Reason's  self  doth  Love  approve, 
Which  makes  us  ourselves  to  love. 
Who  can  blame  me  ? 

Could  I  my  past  time  begin, 
I  would  not  commit  such  sin, 
To  live  an  hour,  and  not  to  love ; 
Since  Love  makes  us  perfect  prove, 
Who  can  blame  me  ? 


SONG. 

Love,  a  child,  is  ever  crying ; 
Please  him,  and  he  straight  is  flying ; 
Give  him,  he  the  more  is  craving, 
Never  satisfied  with  having. 

His  desires  have  no  measure  ; 
Endless  folly  is  his  treasure  ; 
What  he  promiseth  he  breaketh, 
Trust  not  one  word  that  he  speaketh. 

He  vows  nothing  but  false  matter; 
And  to  cozen  you  will  flatter  ; 
Let  him  gain  the  hand,  he'll  leave  you, 
And  still  glory  to  deceive  you. 

He  will  triumph  in  your  wailing; 
And  yet  cause  be  of  your  failing  : 
These  his  virtues  are,  and  slighter 
Are  his  gifts,  his  favors  lighter. 


LADY  MARY  WROTH.  51 

Fathers  are  as  firm  in  staying, 
Wolves  no  fiercer  in  their  preying ; 
As  a  child,  then,  leave  him  crying. 
Nor  seek  him  so  given  to  flying. 


The  reader  will  not  fail  to  notice  the  remarkably  contradictory 
sentiments  which  these  two  poems  present  upon  that  important 
subject,  the  character  of  Cnpid.  Like  the  laAvyer  in  Cowper's 
Eyes  and  Nose,  the  fair  author  pleads  upon  both  sides  of  the 
question.     In  the  one  song  we  are  told  that 

"  Love,  a  child,  is  ever  crying,"' — 

and  that  we  are  to 

"  Trust  not  one  word  that  he  speaketh  :" 

in  the  other  we  are  informed  that  Love  is  truth,  and  that  those 
who  call  him  childish 

"  Have,  so  judging,  judgment  miss'd.'' 

Which  doctrine  are  we  to  believe  ? 


52  ANNE,  COUNTESS  OF  ARUNDEL. 


ANNE,  COUNTESS  OF  ARUNDEL. 

1630. 

This  lady  was  sister  of  Thomas,  Lord  Dacre,  and  the  wife 
of  Philip,  Earl  of  Arundel,  who  died  in  the  Tower  of  London, 
in  1595.  The  following  verses,  written  b);  her  on  the  cover  of 
a  letter,  have  been  preserved  by  Mr.  Lodge  (Illustrations  of 
British  History,  vol.  iii.),  who  is  of  opinion  that  they  were  called 
forth  by  the  death  of  her  husband. 


In  sad  and  ashy  weeds  I  sigh, 

I  groan,  I  pine,  I  mourn  ; 
My  oaten  yellow  reeds  I  all 

To  jet  and  ebon  turn. 
My  watery  eyes,  like  winter's  skies, 

My  furrow'd  cheeks  o'erflow  : 
All  heavens  know  why,  men  mourn  as  I, 

And  who  can  blame  my  woe  ? 

In  sable  robes  of  night  my  days 

Of  joy  consumed  be  ; 
My  sorrow  sees  no  light ;  my  lights 

Through  sorrow  nothing  see  : 
For  now  my  sun  his  course  has  run, 

And  from  his  sphere  doth  go 
To  endless  bed  of  folded  lead. 

And  who  can  blame  my  woe  ? 


My  flocks  I  now  forsake,  that  so 
My  sheep  ray  grief  may  know  ; 

The  lilies  loth  to  take,  that  since 
His  death  presum'd  to  grow. 


ANNE,  COUNTESS  OF  ARUNDEL.  53 


I  envy  air,  because  it  dare 

Still  breathe  and  he  not  so  ; 
Hate  earth  that  doth  entomb  his  youth, 

And  who  can  blame  my  woe  ? 

Not  I,  poor  I  alone  —  (alone 

How  can  this  sorrow  be  ?) 
Not  only  men  make  moan,  but  more 

Than  men  make  moan  with  me  : 
The  gods  of  greens,  the  mountain  queens, 

The  fairy  circled  row, 
The  Muses  nine,  and  Powers  divine. 

Do  all  condole  my  woe. 


I  have  not  been  able  to  discover  any  other  poems  attributed  to 
this  lady,  and  therefore  I  conclude  that  her  writings  were  few. 
The  verses  quoted  do  not  look  like  the  production  of  a  practised 
writer,  certainly,  for  the  thoughts  are  obscure,  and  the  style 
laboured.  The  last  stanza  seems  to  me  particularly  unhappy. 
The  expression  "  gods  of  greens"  is  almost  laughable  ;  and  the  idea 
of  the  "  Muses  nine,"  et  cetera,  condoling  her  woe,  is  ludicrously 
ridiculous.  What  could  Terpsichore,  for  instance,  have  to  mourn 
for  in  the  loss  of  Lord  Arundel  ?  And  why  should  "  the  moun- 
tain queens"  make  moan  with  his  widowed  lady?  The  woe 
seems  very  forced  and  unnatural  throughout. 


54  DIANA  PRIMROSE. 


DIANA  PRIMROSE, 

1630, 

Wrote  an  insufferably  prosy  tract  of  twelve  pages,  called  A 
Chain  of  Pearl,  or  a  Memorial  of  the  peerless  Graces  and  heroic 
Virtues  of  Queen  Elizabeth,  of  glorious  memory,  composed  by 
the  noble  lady,  Diana  Primrose.  The  pearls  which  form  this 
chain  are  the  Religion,  Chastity,  Prudence,  Temperance,  Cle- 
mency, Justice,  Fortitude,  Science,  Patience,  and  Bounty  of 
her  Majesty  :  all  of  which  are  described  at  length. 
I  give,  as  a  sample  of  this  fulsome  panegyric, 


THE    EIGHTH    PEARL — SCIENCE. 

Among  the  virtues  intellectual, 
The  van  is  led  by  that  we  Science  call ; 
A  pearl  more  precious  than  the  Egyptian  queen 
Quaff'd  off  to  Antony  :  of  more  esteem 
Than  Indian  gold,  or  most  resplendent  gems. 
Which  ravish  us  with  their  translucent  beams. 
How  many  arts  and  sciences  did  deck 
This  Heroina !  who  still  had  at  beck 
The  Muses  and  the  Graces,  -when  that  she 
Gave  audience  in  state  and  majesty  : 
Then  did  the  goddess  Eloquence  inspire 
Her  royal  breast :  Apollo  with  his  lyre 
Ne'er  made  such  nmsic  ;  on  her  sacred  lips 
Angels  enthroned,  most  heavenly  manna  sips. 
Then  might  you  see  her  nectar-flowing  vein 
Surround  the  hearers  ;  in  which  sugar'd  stream 
She  able  was  to  drown  a  world  of  men, 


DIANA  PRIMROSE.  55 


And  drown'd  with  sweetness  to  revive  again. 
Alasco,  the  ambassador  Polonian, 
Who  perorated  like  a  mere  Slavonian, 
And  in  rude  rambling  Rhetoric  did  roll, 
She  did  with  Attic  eloquence  control. 
Her  speeches  to  our  Academians, 
Well  shew'd  she  knew  among  Athenians 
How  to  deliver  such  well-tuned  words 
As  with  such  places  punctually  accords. 
But  with  what  Oratory-ravishments 
Did  she  imparadise  her  Parliaments  ! 
Her  last  most  princely  speech  doth  verify, 
How  highly  she  did  England  dignify. 
Her  loyal  Commons  how  did  she  embrace, 
And  entertain  with  a  most  royal  grace  ! 

In  justice  to  Mrs.  Primrose,  we  should  call  to  mind  that  many 
contemporary  writers  of  the  other  sex  far  surpassed  her  in  their 
adulations  of  Royalty.  Indeed,  she  follows  some  of  them  at  a  very 
humble  distance.  And  I  think  that  flattery  is  at  all  times  far  less 
chargeable  upon  the  female  than  upon  the  male  sex.  Woman 
keeps  much  closer  to  truth  than  man  does.  Whether  it  be 
that  her  natural  timidity  leads  her  to  keep  always  in  sight  of  land, 
or  that  she  has  a  more  honest  and  consistent  regard  for  verity,  it 
might  seem  like  flattery  to  determine  ;  but  certain  it  is,  that  she 
very  rarely  sails  out  boldly  into  the  sea  of  falsehood,  or  trusts 
herself  to  any  considerable  distance  upon  its  treacherous  waters. 


56  MARY  FAGE. 


MARY  FAGE. 
1637. 


This  lady  deserves  mention,  if  only  for  her  ingenuity.  In  a 
volume  published  by  her  in  1637,  and  entitled  Fame's  Foiile,  she 
presents  no  fewer  than  four  hundred  and  twenty  anagrams  and 
acrostics  upon  the  names  of  the  Royal  Family  and  the  nobility  ! 
Such  instances  of  patient  labour  are  (happily)  rare. 


To  the  Bight  Hon.  John,  Earl  of  Clare,  Lord 
Houghton,  of  Houghton. 

John  Hollis. 

Anagramma, 
Oh  !  on  hy  hills. 

In  virtue  when  I  see  you  make  such  speed, 
Oh  !  it  doth  then  no  admiration  breed, 
Hy,  on  hy  hills  of  honor  that  you  stand  : 
Nature  commandeth  virliie  such  a  band. 
Honor  on  virtue  ever  should  attend  : 
Oh,  on  hy  hills  you  may  forever  wend: 
Loving  of  virtue  which  doth  shine  so  clear. 
Likely  it  is,  you  Earl  of  Clare  appear. 
Insue  then  well,  what  you  have  well  begun, 
So  on  hy  hills  to  stand  you  Avell  have  won. 


MARY  FAGE.  57 


To  the  Right  Hon.  John,  Earl  of  Weymes,  Lord  Weymes. 
John  Weymes. 

Anagramma, 

Shew  men  joy. 

In  your  great  honour  free  from  all  alloy, 
O  truly  noble  Weymes,  you  sheiv  m,en  joy  ; 
Having  your  virtues  in  their  clearer  sight. 
Nothing  there  is  can  breed  them  more  delight. 
With  Joy  your  wisdom  so  doth  men  content: 
Ever  we  pray  it  might  be  permanent: 
Your  virtuous  life  doth  breed  so  great  delight, 
Men  wish  you  endless  Jo?/,  you  to  requite ; 
Eternal  Joy  may  unto  you  succeed, 
Shewing  men  joy,  who  do  our  comfort  breed. 


It  is  due  to  our  Female  Poets  to  observe,  that  as  a  body  they 
are  singularly  free  from  such  acrostical  and  alliterative  fancies. 
Not  more  than  two  or  three  of  the  Sisterhood  have  manifested  in 
any  degree  that  cruelty  of  disposition  which  consists  in  subject- 
ing the  words  they  employ  to  the  torture-drill  of  ingenuity :  — 
and  the  majority  of  them  disdain  any  use  of  language  but  a  sim- 
ple and  sensible  one.  I  cannot  call  to  mind  a  punster  among 
them. 
8 


58  ANNA  HUME. 


ANNA  HUME, 

1644, 

Was  the  daughter  of  David  Hume,  of  Godscroft.  In  1644  she 
published,  at  Edinburgh,  The  Triumphs  of  Love,  Chastity, 
Death:  translated  out  of  Petrarch;  from  which  Book  the 
following  selection  is  made. 


TO    THE    READER. 


Reader,  I  have  oft  been  told, 
Verse  that  speak  not  Love  are  cold. 
I  would  gladly  please  thine  ear. 
But  am  loth  to  buy  't  too  dear. 
And 'tis  easier  far  to  borrow 
Lovers'  tears  than  feel  their  sorrow. 
Therefore  he  hath  furnisht  me 
Who  had  enough  to  serve  all  three. 


FROM   THE    TRIUMPH    OF    DEATH.  —  (cHAP.    1.) 

Lauretta  meeting  cruel  Death, 
Mildly  resigns  her  noble  breath. 

The  fatal  hour  of  her  short  life  drew  near. 

That  doubtful  passage  which  the  world  doth  fear; 

Another  company,  who  had  not  been 

Freed  from  their  earthly  burden,  there  were  seen, 


ANNA  HUME.  59 


To  try  if  prayers  could  appease  the  wrath, 
Or  stay  the  inexorable  hand  of  death. 
That  beauteous  crowd  conven'd  to  see  the  end 
Which  all  must  taste  ;  each  neighbour,  every  friend 
Stood  by,  when  grim  death  with  her  hand  took  hold 
And  pull'd  away  one  only  hair  of  gold. 
Thus  from  the  world  this  fairest  flower  is  ta'en 
To  make  her  shrine  more  bright,  not  out  of  spleen. 
How  many  moaning  plaints,  what  store  of  cries 
Were  utter'd  there,  when  fate  shut  those  fair  eyes 
For  which  so  oft  I  sung ;  whose  beauties  burn'd 
My  tortur'd  heart  so  long:  whiles  others  mourn'd 
She  pleas'd,  and  quiet  did  the  fruit  enjoy 
Of  her  blest  Ufe  ;  farewell,  without  annoy, 
True  saint  on  earth,  said  they  :  so  might  she  be 
Esteem'd,  but  nothing  'bates  death's  cruelty. 
*  *  *  * 

Now  at  what  rate  I  should  the  sorrow  prize, 

I  know  not ;  nor  have  art  that  can  suffice 

The  sad  affliction  to  relate  in  verse 

Of  these  fair  Dames  that  wept  about  her  hearse : 

Courtesy,  Virtue,  Beauty,  all  are  lost. 

What  shall  become  of  us  ?  none  else  can  boast 

Such  high  perfection,  no  more  we  shall 

Hear  her  wise  words,  nor  the  angelical 

Sweet  music  of  her  voice  ;  whiles  thus  they  cried. 

The  parting  spirit  doih  itself  divide 

With  every  virtue  from  the  noble  breast. 

As  some  grave  hermit  seeks  a  lonely  rest; 

The  heavens  were  clear,  and  all  the  ambient  air 

Without  a  threatening  cloud  ;  no  adversaire 

Durst  once  appear,  or  her  calm  mind  affright: 

Death  singly  did  herself  conclude  the  fight ; 

After,  when  fear  and  the  extremest  plaint 

Were  ceased,  the  attentive  eyes  of  all  were  bent 

On  that  fair  face,  and  by  despair  became 

Secure  ;  she  who  was  spent,  not  like  a  flame 

By  force  cxtinguish'd,  but  as  lights  decay, — 


And  undiscerned  waste  themselves  away : 
Thus  went  the  soul  in  peace,  so  lamps  are  spent, 
As  the  oil  fails  which  gives  them  nourishment : 
In  sum,  her  countenance  you  still  might  know 
The  same  it  was,  not  pale,  but  white  as  snow 
Which  on  the  tops  of  hills  in  gentle  flakes 
Falls  in  a  calm,  or  as  a  man  that  takes 
Desired  rest,  as  if  her  lovely  sight 
Were  clos'd  with  sweetest  sleep,  after  the  sprite 
Was  gone.     If  this  be  that  fools  call  to  die, 
Death  seem'd  in  her  exceeding  fair  to  be. 


For  the  foregoing  passage  I  am  indebted  to  the  Rev.  Mr. 
Dyce's  Specimens  of  British  Poetesses,  a  work  of  much  research 
and  merit.  I  take  this  opportunity  to  acknowledge  very  conside- 
rable obligations  to  that  production. 


MRS.  ANNE   BRADSTREET. 

[Mrs.  Anne  Bradstreet,  though  born  in  England,  lived  nearly 
all  her  life  in  America,  where  she  died  about  the  middle  of  the 
seventeenth  century.  She  was  the  daughter  of  one  and  the  wife 
of  another  Governor  of  Massachusetts,  and  she  was  celebrated 
by  the  Puritan  Fathers  as  the  "  glory  of  her  sex,"  as  the  "  tenth 
muse,"  &c.,  &c.  Her  name  and  history  appear  more  appropri- 
ately in  "  The  Female  Poets  of  America."  —  Editor.'] 


ANN  COLLINS. 


1653, 


Wrote  a  book  called   Divine    Songs   and   Meditations,  from 
which  I  extract  the  following- 


The  Winter  being  over, 

In  order  comes  the  Spring, 

Which  doth  green  herbs  discover, 

And  cause  the  birds  to  sing. 

The  night  also  expired, 

Then  comes  the  morning  bright. 

Which  is  so  much  desired 

By  all  that  love  the  light. 

This  may  learn 

Them  that  mourn, 

To  put  their  grief  to  flight : 

The  Spring  succeedeth  Winter, 

And  day  must  follow  night. 

He  therefore  that  sustaineth 
Affliction  or  distress. 
Which  every  member  paineth 
And  findeth  no  release  : 
Let  such  therefore  despair  not. 
But  on  firm  hope  depend, 
Whose  griefs  immortal  are  not. 
And  therefore  must  have  end 
They  that  faint 

F 


62  ANN  COLLINS. 


With  complaint 
Therefore  are  to  blame  : 
They  add  to  their  atflictions, 
And  amplify  the  same. 

For  if  they  could  with  patience 
Awhile  possess  the  mind, 
By  inward  consolations 
They  might  refreshing  find, 
To  sweeten  all  their  crosses, 
That  little  time  they  'dure: 
So  might  they  gain  by  losses, 
And  sharp  would  sweet  procure. 
But  if  the  mind 
Be  inclined 
To  unquietness, 
That  only  may  be  called 
The  worst  of  all  distress. 

He  that  is  melancholy, 

Detesting  all  delight, 

His  wits  by  sottish  folly 

Are  ruinated  quite. 

Sad  discontent  and  murmurs 

To  him  are  incident: 

Were  he  possessed  of  honors, 

He  could  not  be  content. 

Sparks  of  joy 

Fly  away. 

Floods  of  care  arise ; 

And  all  delightful  motion 

In  the  conception  dies. 

But  those  that  are  contented, 
However  things  do  fall, 
Much  anguish  is  prevented. 
And  they  soon  freed  from  all. 
They  finish  all  their  labours 


ANN   COLLINS.  63 


With  much  felicity, 

Their  joy  in  trouble  savours 

Of  perfect  piety. 

Cheerfulness 

Doth  express 

A  settled  pious  mind  ; 

Which  is  not  prone  to  judging, 

From  murmuring  refin'd. 

The  calm,  pious  cheerfulness  of  sentiment  displayed  in  the 
above  lines  will  not  fail  to  yield  a  warm  sensation  of  pleasure  to 
the  reader.  I  make  especial  reference  to  it,  because  I  think  it 
characteristic  of  the  female  spirit  generally,  as  this  volume  will 
prove  almost  in  every  page  ;  and  because  I  think  that  a  critic  is 
bound  to  take  every  possible  opportunity  to  pay  honour  to  those 
writers  who  address  the  better  feelings  of  humanity. 


MARY    MORPETH, 
1656, 


"A  Scotch  poetess,  and  a  friend  of  the  poet  Drummond,  of 
whom,  besides  many  other  things  in  poetry,  she  had  a  large 
Encomium  in  verse." — Theatrum  Poet  arum. 


TO    WILLIAM    DRUMMOND,    OF    HAWTHORNDEN. 

(Prefixed  to  his  Poems,  1656.) 

I  never  rested  on  the  Muses'  bed. 

Nor  dipt  my  quill  in  the  Thessalian  fountain, 

My  rustic  muse  was  rudely  fostered. 

And  flies  too  low  to  reach  the  double  mountain. 

Then  do  not  sparks  with  your  bright  suns  compare, 
Perfection  in  a  woman's  work  is  rare ; 
From  an  untroubled  mind  should  verses  flow  ; 
My  discontent  makes  mine  too  muddy  show  ; 
And  hoarse  encumbrances  of  household  care, 
Where  these  remain,  the  Muses  ne'er  repair. 

If  thou  dost  extol  her  hair. 

Or  her  ivory  forehead  fair. 

Or  those  stars  whose  bright  reflection 

Thralls  thy  heart  in  sweet  subjection  . 

Or  when  to  display  thou  seeks 

The  snow-mixt  roses  on  her  cheeks, 

Or  those  i-ubies  soft  and  sweet 


MARY   MORPETH.  65 


Over  those  pretty  rows  that  meet: 

The  Chian  painter  as  asham'd 

Hides  his  picture  so  far  fani'd ; 

And  the  queen  he  carv'd  it  by 

With  a  bhish  her  face  doth  dye, 

Since  those  lines  do  Umn  a  creature. 

That  so  far  surpass'd  her  feature. 

When  thou  show'st  how  fairest  Flora 

Prankt  with  pride  the  banks  of  Ora, 

So  thy  verse  her  streams  doth  honour, 

Strangers  grow  enamour'd  on  her  ; 

All  the  swans  that  swim  in  Po 

Would  their  native  brooks  forego, 

And,  as  loathing  Phoebus'  beams. 

Long  to  bathe  in  cooler  streams. 

Tree-turned  Daphne  would  be  seen 

In  her  groves  to  flourish  green  ; 

And  her  boughs  would  gladly  spare 

To  frame  a  garland  for  thy  hair. 

That  fairest  nvmphs.  with  finest  fingers 

May  thee  crown  the  best  of  singers. 

But  when  thy  Muse,  dissolv'd  in  showers, 

Wails  that  peerless  prince  of  ours, 

Cropt  by  too  untimely  fate. 

Her  mourning  doth  exasperate 

Senseless  things  to  see  thee  mourn. 

Stones  do  weep,  and  trees  do  groan, 

Birds  in  air,  fishes  in  flood, 

Beasts  in  field  forsake  their  food  ; 

The  Nymphs  foregoing  all  their  bowers 

Tear  the  chaplets  deckt  with  flowers  ; 

Sol  himself  with  misty  vapour 

Hides  from  earth  his  glorious  taper, 

And,  as  moved  to  hear  thee  'plain, 

Shows  his  grief  in  showers  of  rain. 

Mary  Morpeth,  of  Oxlie. 


06  MARi'   MORPETH. 


Mary  Morpeth  was  the  author  of  several  Poetical  Epistles, 
with  titles  like  the  following: — To  the  most  Illustrious  John, 
Earl  of  Lauderdale ;  a  congratulatory  welcome  of  an  heart- 
well-wishing  quill:  but  I  find  nothing  in  those  poems  that  is 
worth  extracting.  Should  the  reader  be  disposed,  however, 
from  the  style  of  the  passage  above  quoted,  to  entertain  a  higher 
opinion  of  our  fair  author's  merits  than  I  do,  I  may  refer  him  to 
a  volume  of  Scottish  Fugitive  Poetry,  which  was  published  at 
Edinburgh  in  1823,  and  w.hich  contains  several  of  the  letters  in 
verse  to  which  I  have  alluded.  They  will  be  found  under  the 
signature  of  "M.  M." 


KATHERINE   PHILIPS, 

1631—1664, 

Was  the  daughter  of  John  Fowles,  of  Bucklersbury,  a  London 
merchant,  and  was  born  in  1631.  Slie  was  married  in  1647  to 
Mr.  James  Philips,  of  the  Priory,  Cardigan,  and  died  of  small- 
pox in  1664. 

Mrs.  Philips  has  always  seemed  to  me  to  be  one  of  the  best 
of  our  Female  Poets.  Her  versification,  though  often  careless, 
is  chaste  and  harmonious,  and  her  sentiments  extremely  pure 
and  excellent.  She  appears  to  have  enjoyed  considerable  fame, 
for  Cowley  and  Dryden  celebrated  her  genius,  and  Jeremy 
Taylor  dedicated  to  her  his  Discourse  on  Friendship. 

That  must  have  been  a  noble  spirit  which  in  such  a  licentious 
and  gaudy  era  as  the  reign  of  Charles  the  Second  could  conceive 
and  embody  the  following 

ODE    AGAINST    PLEASURE. 

There's  no  such  thing  as  pleasure  here, 

'Tis  all  a  perfect  cheat. 
Which  does  but  shine  and  disappear, 

Whose  charm  is  but  deceit : 
The  empty  bribe  of  yielding  souls. 
Which  first  betrays,  and  then  controls. 

'Tis  true,  it  looks  at  distance  fair, 

But  if  we  do  approach, 
The  fruit  of  Sodom  will  impair, 

And  perish  at  a  touch  ; 
It  being  than  in  fancy  less. 
And  we  expect  more  than  possess. 


For  by  our  pleasures  we  are  cloy'd 

And  so  desire  is  done  ; 
Or  else,  like  rivers,  they  make  wide 

The  channels  where  they  run ; 
And  either  way  true  bliss  destroys, 
Making  us  narrow,  or  our  joys. 

We  covet  pleasure  easily, 

But  ne'er  true  bliss  possess  ; 
For  many  things  must  make  it  be. 

But  one  may  make  it  less. 
Nay,  were  our  state  as  we  would  choose  it, 
'Twould  be  consumed  by  fear  to  lose  it. 

What  art  thou,  then,  thou  winged  air, 

More  weak  and  swift  than  fame  ? 
Whose  next  successor  is  despair, 

And  its  attendant  shame. 
The'  experienced  prince  then  reason  had 
Who  said  of  Pleasure,  —  "  It  is  mad." 

It  is  from  passages  like  this  that  we  gain  a  true  idea  of  the 
power  and  mission  of  the  female  mind.  To  refine,  to  exalt,  and 
to  purify  the  soul  of  the  world,  is  woman's  noble  office:  to  keep 
chaste  its  sentiments,  to  spiritualise  its  affections,  and  to  detach 
it  from  the  too-material  pleasures  and  engagements  of  life,  is  her 
lofty  duty :  and  the  poem  above  quoted  is  one  proof  among 
many  in  this  work,  how  earnestly  and  ably,  even  under  the  most 
discouraging  circumstances,  she  applies  herself  to  her  allotted 
task.      Great  indeed  is  the  debt  that  morality  owes  to  her ! 

The  pure  and  chaste  sentiments  which  Katherine  Philips 
urged  may  further  be  seen  in  this  fine  poem,  called 

A    COUNTRY    LIFE. 

How  sacred  and  how  innocent 

A  country  life  appears  ; 
How  free  from  tumult,  discontent. 

From  flattery  or  fears  ! 


This  was  the  first  and  happiest  life, 

When  man  enjoy'd  himself; 
Till  pride  exchanged  peace  for  strife, 

And  happiness  for  pelf. 

'Twas  here  the  poets  were  inspired. 

Here  taught  the  multitude  ; 
The  brave  they  here  with  honour  fir'd, 

And  civilised  the  rude. 

That  golden  age  did  entertain 

No  passion  but  of  love  ; 
The  thoughts  of  ruling  and  of  gain 

Did  ne'er  their  fancies  move. 

None  then  did  envy  neighbour's  wealth. 

Nor  plot  to  wrong  his  bed ; 
Happy  in  friendship  and  in  health, 

On  roots,  not  beasts,  they  fed. 

They  knew  no  law  nor  physic  then, 

Nature  was  all  their  wit : 
And  if  there  yet  remain  to  men 

Content,  sure  this  is  it. 

What  blessings  doth  this  world  afford 

To  tempt  or  bribe  desire  ! 
Her  courtship  is  all  fire  and  sword. 

Who  would  not  then  retire  ? 

Then  welcome  dearest  solitude, 

My  great  felicity  ; 
Though  some  are  pleas'd  to  call  thee  rude. 

Thou  art  not  so,  but  we. 

Them  that  do  covet  only  rest, 

A  cottage  will  suffice : 
It  is  not  brave  to  be  possest 

Of  earth,  but  to  despise. 


70 


KATHERINE   PHILIPS. 


Opinion  is  the  rate  of  things, 

From  hence  our  peace  doth  flow  ; 

I  have  a  better  late  than  kings, 
Because  I  think  it  so. 

When  all  the  stormy  world  doth  roar, 

How  unconcern'd  am  I ! 
I  cannot  fear  to  tumble  lower 

Who  never  could  be  high. 

Secure  in  these  unenvy'd  walls, 

I  think  not  on  the  state, 
And  pity  no  man's  case  that  falls 

From  his  ambitious  height. 

Silence  and  innocence  are  safe ; 

A  heart  that's  nobly  true 
At  all  these  little  arts  can  laugh 

That  do  the  world  subdue. 


While  others  revel  it  in  stale. 

Here  I'll  coiilenied  sit. 
And  think  I  have  as  good  a  fate 

As  wealth  and  pomp  admit. 

Let  some  in  courtsliip  take  delight, 
And  to  the'  Exchange  resort; 

Then  revel  out  a  winter's  night. 
Not  making  love,  but  sport. 

These  never  knew  a  noble  flame, 
'Tis  lust,  scorn  or  design  : 

While  vanity  plays  all  their  game. 
Let  peace  and  honour  mine. 

When  the  inviting  spring  appears. 
To  Hyde  Park  let  them  go. 

And  hasting  thence  be  full  of  fears 
To  lose  Spring-Garden  show. 


Let  others  (nobler)  seek  to  gain 

In  knowledge  happy  fate, 
And  others  busy  them  in  vain 

To  study  ways  of  state. 

But  I  resolved  from  within, 

Confirmed  from  without, 
In  privacy  intend  to  spin 

My  future  minutes  out. 

And  from  this  hermitage  of  mine, 

I  banish  all  wild  toys, 
And  nothing  that  is  not  divine 

Shall  dare  to  tempt  my  joys. 

There  are  below  but  two  things  good, 

Friendship  and  Honesty ; 
And  only  those  of  all  I  would 

Ask  for  felicity. 

In  this  retir'd  and  humlile  seat, 

Free  from  both  war  and  strife, 
I  am  not  fore'd  to  make  retreat, 

But  choose  to  spend  my  life. 

The  subjoined  lines  seem  to  me  to  contain   some  sound  philo- 
sophy, most  pointedly  expressed. 

TO    MY    ANTENOR,  MARCH    16,  1660-1. 

My  dear  Antenor,  now  give  o'er. 
For  my  sake  talk  of  graves  no  more  ; 
Death  is  not  in  our  power  to  gain. 
And  is  both  wish'd  and  fear'd  in  vain. 
Let  's  be  as  angry  as  we  will. 
Grief  sooner  may  distract  than  kill ; 
And  the  unhappy  often  prove 
Death  is  as  coy  a  thing  as  love. 


Those  whose  own  sword  their  death  did  give, 

Afraid  were,  or  asham'd,  to  live  ; 

And  by  an  act  so  desperate, 

Did  poorly  run  away  from  fate  ; 

'Tis  braver  much  t'  outride  the  storm, 

Endure  its  rage,  and  shun  its  harm  ; 

Affliction  nobly  undergone. 

More  greatness  shows  than  having  none. 

But  yet  the  wheel  in  turning  round, 

At  last  may  lift  us  from  the  ground  ; 

And  when  our  fortune  's  most  severe, 

The  less  we  have,  the  less  we  fear. 

And  why  should  we  that  grief  permit, 

Which  cannot  mend  nor  shorten  it  ? 

Let  's  wait  for  a  succeeding  good. 

Woes  have  their  ebb  as  well  as  flood ; 

And  since  the  parliament  have  rescued  you. 

Believe  that  Providence  will  do  so  too. 


Mrs.  Philips  was  known,  as  a  poetess,  by  the  name  of  Orinda  ; 
and  was  as  exemplary  m  the  discharge  of  her  domestic  duties  as 
she  was  celebrated  for  her  poetical  abilities. 


PRINCESS   ELIZABETH. 

1597—1662. 

This  lady  was  the  amiable  daughter  of  King  James  the  First; 
and  she  became  the  Queen  of  Bohemia.  The  following  verses 
were  given  by  her  to  Lord  Harrington  of  Exton,  her  preceptor ; 
they  are,  as  will  be  seen,  full  of  devout  feeling,  very  gracefully 
and  eloquently  expressed. 

This  is  joy,  this  is  true  pleasure, 
If  we  best  things  make  our  treasure, 
And  enjoy  them  at  full  leisure, 
Evermore  in  richest  measure. 

God  is  only  excellent, 
Let  up  to  Him  our  love  be  sent : 
Whose  desires  are  set  or  bent 
On  aught  else,  shall  much  repent. 

Theirs  is  a  most  wretched  case, 
Who  themselves  so  far  disgrace, 
That  they  their  affections  place 
Upon  things  nam'd  vile  and  base. 

Let  us  love  of  heaven  receive. 
These  are  joys  our  hearts  will  heave 
Higher  than  we  can  conceive. 
And  shall  us  not  fail  nor  leave. 

Earthly  things  do  fade,  decay. 
Constant  to  us  not  one  day  : 
Suddenly  they  pass  away. 
And  we  can  not  make  them  stay. 
10  o 


All  the  vast  world  doth  contain, 
To  content  man's  heart,  are  vain, 
That  still  justly  will  complain. 
And  imsatisfied  remain. 

God  most  holy,  high  and  great, 
Our  delight  doth  make  complete  : 
When  in  us  he  takes  his  seat, 
Only  then  are  we  replete. 

Why  should  vain  joys  us  transport? 
Earthly  pleasures  are  but  short, 
And  are  mingled  in  such  sort. 
Griefs  are  greater  than  the  sport. 

And  regard  of  this  yet  have, 
Nothing  can  from  death  us  save, 
Then  we  must  into  our  grave. 
When  we  most  are  pleasure's  slave. 

By  long  use  our  souls  will  cleave 
To  the  earth  ;  then  it  we  leave  ; 
Then  will  cruel  death  bereave. 
All  the  joys  that  we  receive. 

Thence  they  go  to  hellish  flame, 
Ever  tortur'd  in  the  same, 
With  perpetual  blot  of  name. 
Flout,  reproach,  and  endless  shame , 

Torment  not  to  be  exprest, 
But  O  then  !  how  greatly  blest. 
Whose  desires  are  whole  addreat 
To  the  heavenly  things  and  best. 

Thy  affections  shall  increase 
Growing  forward  without  cease, 
Even  until  thou  diest  in  peace, 
And  enjoyest  eternal  ease. 


When  thy  heart  is  fullest  fraught 

With  heaven's  love,  it  shall  be  caught 

To  the  place  it  lov'd  and  sought, 

Which  Christ's  precious  blood  hath  bought. 

Joys  of  those  which  there  shall  dwell. 
No  heart  can  think,  no  tongue  can  tell ; 
Wonderfully  they  excel, 
Those  thy  soul  will  fully  swell. 

Are  these  things  indeed  even  so  ? 
Do  I  certainly  them  know, 
And  am  I  so  much  ray  foe, 
To  remain  yet  dull  and  slow  ? 

Doth  not  that  surpassing  joy, 
Ever  freed  from  all  annoy, 
Me  inflame  ?  and  quite  destroy 
Love  of  every  earthly  toy  1 

Oh,  how  frozen  is  my  heart ! 
Oh,  my  soul !  how  dead  thou  art ! 
Thou,  O  God  !  we  may  impart, 
Vain  is  human  strength  and  art. 

0  my  God !  for  Christ  his  sake, 
Quite  from  me  this  dulness  take ; 
Cause  me  earth's  love  to  forsake, 
And  of  heaven  my  realm  to  make. 

If  early  thanks  I  render  thee. 
That  thou  hast  enlightened  me. 
With  such  knowledge  that  I  see 
What  ttiings  must  behoveful  be  : 

That  I  hereon  meditate, 
That  desire,  I  find  (though  late) 
To  prize  heaven  at  higher  rate. 
And  these  pleasures  vain  to  hate. 


0,  enlighten  more  my  sight, 
And  dispel  my  darksome  night, 
Good  Lord,  by  thy  heavenly  light, 
And  thy  beams  most  pure  and  bright. 

Since  in  me  such  thoughts  are  scant, 
Of  thy  grace  impair  my  Avant, 
Often  meditations  grant, 
And  in  me  more  deeply  plant. 

Work  of  wisdom  more  desire, 
Grant  I  may  with  holy  ire 
Slight  the  world, and  me  inspire 
With  thy  love  to  be  on  fire. 

What  care  I  for  lofty  place. 
If  the  Lord  grant  me  his  grace, 
Shewing  me  his  pleasant  face, 
And  with  joy  I  end  my  race. 

This  is  only  my  desire, 
This  doth  set  my  heart  on  fire. 
That  I  might  receive  my  hire. 
With  the  saints'  and  angels'  quire 

O  my  soul  of  heavenly  birth. 
Do  thou  scorn  this  basest  earth, 
Place  not  here  thy  joy  and  mirtn. 
Where  of  bliss  is  greatest  deartti. 

From  below  thy  mind  remove. 
And  affect  the  things  above  : 
Set  thy  heart  and  fix  thy  love 
Where  thou  truest  joys  shalt  prove. 

If  I  do  love  things  on  high, 
Doubtless  them  enjoy  shall  I, 
Earthly  pleasures  if  I  try 
They  pursu{?d  faster  fly. 


PRINCESS   ELIZABETH.  77 

0  Lord  !  glorious,  yet  most  kind, 

Thou  hast  these  thoughts  put  in  my  mind ; 
Let  me  grace  increasing  find. 
Me  to  thee  more  firmly  bind. 

To  God  glory,  thanks  and  praise, 

1  will  render  all  my  days, 
Who  has  blest  me  many  ways, 
Shedding  on  me  gracious  rays. 

To  me  grace,  0  Father!  send. 
On  thee  wholly  to  depend. 
That  all  may  to  thy  glory  tend; 
So  let  me  live,  so  let  me  end. 

Now  to  the  true  Eternal  King, 
Not  seen  with  human  eye, 
The'  immortal,  only  wise,  true  God, 
Be  praise  perpetually  ! 


The  foregoing  extract  is  taken  from  the  Nugse  ^ntiquse.  I 
am  not  aware  that  the  Princess  wrote  any  other  poems  ;  but  that 
her  powers  and  acquirements  were  well  appreciated,  there  is 
plenty  of  evidence  to  show.  Like  many  of  the  noble  ladies  of 
her  time,  the  Princess  Elizabeth  was  well  taught  in  classical  and 
polite  learning.  It  will  be  observed  that  most  of  the  Female  Poets 
of  the  sixteenth  and  seventeenth  centuries  were  highly-educated 
women  of  rank :  and  the  ease  and  grace  with  which  they  bore  their 
scholastic  attainments  will  not  fail  to  be  remarked  by  the  reader. 


FRANCES   BOOTHBY, 
1670, 


Lived  in  the  reign  of  Charles  the  Second,  and  was  related  to 
Lady  Yate,  of  Harvington  in  Worcestershire,  as  we  learn  from 
the  dedication  of  the  only  piece  she  has  written,  a  play  called 
Marcelia. 


You  powerful  Gods  !  if  I  must  be 

An  injur'd  ofTering  to  Love's  deity, 

Grant  my  revenge,  this  plague  on  men. 

That  woman  ne'er  may  love  again. 
Then  I'll  with  joy  submit  unto  my  fate, 
Which  by  your  justice  gives  their  empire  date. 

Depose  that  proud  insulting  boy, 

Who  most  is  pleas'd  when  he  can  most  destroy  ; 

O  let  the  world  no  longer  govern'd  be 

By  such  a  blind  and  childish  Deity  ! 
For  if  you  gods  be  in  your  power  severe. 
We  shall  adore  you,  not  from  love,  but  fear. 

But  if  you'll  his  divinity  maintain. 

O'er  men,  false  men,  confine  his  torturing  reign  ; 

And  when  their  hearts  love's  greatest  torments  prove. 

Let  that  not  pity,  but  our  laughter  move. 
Thus  scorn'd  and  lost  to  all  their  wishes  aim. 
Let  Rage,  Despair,  and  Death,  then  end  their  flame. 


MARGARET,  DUCHESS  OF  NEWCASTLE. 
1673. 

This  very  voluminous  and  indefatigable  authoress  was  born 
at  St.  John's,  near  Colchester,  about  the  end  of  the  reign  of 
James  the  First :  her  father  was  Sir  Charles  Lucas.  She 
became  one  of  the  Maids  of  Honour  to  Queen  Henrietta  Maria, 
whom  she  accompanied  to  France.  She  there  was  married  to 
the  Marquis  of  Newcastle,  who  assisted  her  in  her  literary 
labours.  The  noble  pair  produced  between  them  nearly  twelve 
folio  volumes  of  plays,  poems,  orations,  and  essays ;  most  of 
them  sufficiently  ambitious  in  their  aim,  but  none  of  them  at  all 
remarkable  for  wit  or  genius. 

The  Duchess  is  not  without  force,  and  that,  too,  often  of  a 
picturesque  and  effective  sort,  as  the  following  extracts  will 
show :  but  the  bulk  of  her  works  are  insufferably  tame,  common- 
place, and  prosy. 

OF    THE    THEME    OF    LOVE. 

O  Love,  how  thou  art  tired  out  with  rhyme ! 
Thou  art  a  tree  whereon  all  poets  climb ; 
And  from  thy  branches  every  one  takes  some 
Of  thy  sweet  fruit,  which  Fancy  feeds  upon. 
But  now  thy  tree  is  left  so  bare  and  poor. 
That  they  can  hardly  gather  one  plum  more. 


DESCRIPTION    OF    THE  ELFIN    QUEEN. 

She  on  a  dewy  leaf  doth  bathe, 
And  as  she  sits  the  leaf  doth  wave: 


80  MARGARET,  DUCHESS   OF   NEWCASTLE. 


There,  like  a  new  fall'n  flake  of  snow 
Doth  her  white  limbs  in  beauty  show. 
Her  garments  fair  her  maids  put  on, 
Made  of  the  pure  light  from  the  sun. 


PERSONIFICATION    OF    MELANCHOLY. 

Her  voice  is  low,  and  gives  a  hollow  sound ; 
She  hates  the  light,  and  is  in  darkness  found ; 
Or  sits  with  blinking  lamps,  or  tapers  small. 
Which  various  shadows  make  against  the  wall. 
She  loves  nought  else  but  noise  which  discord  makes. 
As  croaking  frogs,  whose  dwelling  is  in  lakes; 
The  raven's  hoarse,  the  mandrake's  hollow  groan, 
And  shrieking  owls,  which  fly  i'  the  night  alone  : 
The  tolling  bell  which  for  the  dead  rings  out ; 
A  mill  where  rushing  waters  run  about ; 
The  roaring  winds,  which  shake  the  cedars  tall. 
Plough  up  the  seas,  and  beat  the  rocks  withal. 
She  loves  to  walk  in  the  still  moonshine  night. 
And  in  a  thick  dark  grove  she  takes  delight ; 
In  hollow  caves,  thatch'd  houses,  and  low  cells, 
She  loves  to  live,  and  there  alone  she  dwells. 

The  account  which  Melancholy  gives  of  herself  scarcely  agrees 
with  the  foregoing  portrait  of  her  by  her  rival,  Mirth. 

melancholy's  description  of  her  dwelling. 

I  dwell  in  groves  that  gilt  arc  with  the  sun  ; 
Sit  on  the  banks  by  which  clear  waters  run ; 
In  summers  hot  down  in  a  shade  I  lie ; 
■   My  music  is  the  buzzing  of  a  fly ; 
I  walk  in  meadows,  where  grows  fresh  green  grass  ; 
In  fields  where  corn  is  high,  I  often  pass ; 


MARGARET,  DUCHESS   OF  NEWCASTLE.  81 


Walk  up  the  hills,  where  round  I  prospects  see, 

Some  brushy  woods,  and  some  all  champaigns  be  ; 

Returning  back,  I  in  fresh  pastures  go, 

To  hear  how  sheep  do  bleat,  and  cows  do  low ; 

In  winter  cold,  when  nipping  frosts  come  on, 

Then  I  do  live  in  a  small  house  alone ; 

Although  'tis  plain,  yet  cleanly  'tis  within. 

Like  to  a  soul  that's  pure  and  clear  from  sin ; 

And  there  I  dwell  in  quiet  and  still  peace, 

Not  fill'd  with  cares  how  riches  do  increase ; 

I  wish  nor  seek  for  vain  and  fruitless  pleasures ; 

No  riches  are,  but  what  the  mind  intreasures. 

Thus  am  I  solitary,  live  alone, 

Yet  better  lov'd  the  more  that  I  am  known ; 

And  though  my  face  ill-favour'd  at  first  sight, 

After  acquaintance,  it  will  give  delight. 

Refuse  me  not,  for  I  shall  constant  be  ; 

Maintain  your  credit  and  your  dignity. 


THE   FUNERAL    OF    CALAMITY. 


Calamity  was  laid  on  sorrow's  hearse. 
And  coverings  had  of  melancholy  verse ; 
Compassion,  a  kind  friend,  did  mourning  go, 
And  tears  about  the  corpse,  as  flowers,  strow ; 
A  garland  of  deep  sighs  by  Pity  made 
Upon  Calamity's  sad  corpse  was  laid ; 
Bells  of  complaint  did  ring  it  to  the  grave. 
Poets  a  monument  of  fame  it  gave. 


QUEEN    MAb's    dinner-table. 

Upon  a  mushroom  there  is  spread 
A  cover  fine,  of  spider's  web ; 
11 


82  MARGARET.  DUCHESS  OF  NEWCASTLE. 


And  for  her  stool  a  thistle-down, 
And  for  her  cup  an  acorn's  crown, 
Wherein  strong  nectar  there  is  fill'd 
That  from  sweet  flowers  is  distill'd. 
Flies  of  all  sorts,  both  fat  and  good, 
Partridge,  snipes,  quails  and  poult,  her  food. 
Pheasants,  larks,  cocks,  or  any  kind, 
Botli  wild  and  tame,  you  there  might  find. 
But  for  her  guard  serves  grosser  meat, 
On  stall-fed  dormouse  they  do  eat. 


ANNE  KILLEGREW.  83 


ANNE    KILLEGREW, 

1685, 

Was  the  daughter  of  Dr.  Henry  Killegrew,  Master  of  the  Savoy, 
and  one  of  the  Prebendaries  of  Westminster.  She  was  born 
shortly  before  the  restoration  of  Charles  the  Second,  and  died  in 
1685.  She  appears  to  have  been  highly  accomplished,  and  to 
have  gained  a  high  reputation  amongst  her  contemporaries. 
Dryden  says  of  her,  — 

"  Art  she  had  none,  yet  wanted  none  ; 

For  nature  did  that  want  supply, 

So  rich  in  treasures  of  her  own, 

She  might  our  boasted  stores  defy : 

Such  noble  vigour  did  her  verse  adorn. 

That  it  seem'd  borrow'd  where  'twas  only  born." 

The  following  poem  is  a  pleasing  specimen  of  her  verse  :  — 

THE    COMPLAINT    OF    A    LOVER. 

See'st  thou  yonder  craggy  rock. 

Whose  head  o'erlooks  the  swelling  main. 

Where  never  shepherd  fed  his  flock. 
Or  careful  peasant  sow'd  his  grain? 

No  wholesome  herb  grows  on  the  same, 

Or  bird  of  day  will  on  it  rest ; 
'Tis  barren  as  the  hopeless  flame. 

That  scorches  my  tormented  breast. 


B4  ANNE  KILLEGREW. 


Deep  underneath  a  cave  doth  lie, 
The  entrance  hid  with  dismal  yew, 

Where  Phoebus  never  show'd  his  eye, 
Or  cheerful  day  yet  pierced  through. 

In  that  dark  melancholy  cell, 

(Retreat  and  solace  to  my  woe,) 
Love,  sad  despair,  and  I,  do  dwell, 

The  springs  from  whence  my  griefs  do  flow. 

Treacherous  love  that  did  appear, 

(When  he  at  first  approached  my  heart,) 

Drest  in  a  garb  far  from  severe. 

Or  threatening  aught  of  future  smart. 

So  innocent  those  charms  then  seem'd, 

When  Rosalinda  first  I  spy'd. 
Ah  !  who  would  them  have  deadly  deem'd  ? 

But  flowers  do  often  serpents  hide. 

Beneath  those  sweets  concealed  lay, 

To  love  that  cruel  foe,  Disdain, 
With  which,  alas  !  she  does  repay 

My  constant  and  deserving  pain. 

When  I  in  tears  have  spent  the  night, 

With  sighs  I  usher  in  the  sun, 
Who  never  saw  a  sadder  sight 

In  all  the  courses  he  has  run. 

Sleep,  which  to  others  ease  does  prove, 

Comes  unto  me,  alas  !  in  vain ; 
For  in  my  dreams  I  am  in  love. 

And  in  them,  too,  she  does  disdain. 

Sometimes  t'  amuse  my  sorrow,  I 

Unto  the  hollow  rocks  repair. 
And  loudly  to  the  echo  cry, 

Ah !  gentle  nymph,  come  ease  my  care. 


ANNE  KILLEGREW.  85 


Thou,  who  times  past  a  lover  wert, 
Ah,  pity  me,  who  now  am  so ; 

And  by  a  sense  of  thine  own  smart 
Alleviate  my  mighty  woe. 

Come  flatter,  then,  or  chide  my  grief; 

Catch  my  last  words  and  call  me  fool ; 
Or  say  she  loves  for  my  relief. 

My  passion  either  soothe,  or  school. 


The  following  is  her 


EPITAPH,    WRITTEN    BY    HERSELF. 

When  I  am  dead,  few  friends  attend  my  hearse, 
And  for  a  monument,  I  leave  —  my  verse. 


HERODIA'S    DAUGHTER 

Freseniing  St.  John's  head  in  a  charger. 

Behold,  dear  mother,  who  was  late  our  fear, 

Disarm'd  and  harmless,  I  present  you  here  ; 

The  tongue  tied  up  that  made  all  Jewry  quake, 

And  which  so  often  did  our  greatness  shake : 

No  terror  sits  upon  his  awful  brow, 

Where  fierceness  reign'd,  there  calmness  triumphs  now. 

As  lovers  use  he  gazes  on  my  face, 

With  eyes  that  languish  as  they  sued  for  grace  ; 

Wholly  subdued  by  my  victorious  charms. 

See  how  his  head  reposes  in  my  arms. 

Come  join  then  with  me  in  my  just  transport. 

Who  thus  have  brought  the  hermit  to  the  court. 


80  ANNE   KILLEGREW 


It  seems  that  our  author  was  accusea  of  plagiarism  by  her 
contemporaries ;  or  that  at  least,  in  Dryden's  phrase,  her  vigour 
"seemed  borrowed."  The  following  is  her  notice  of  the 
charge : — 

The  envious  age,  only  to  me  alone, 
Will  not  allow  what  I  do  write  my  own ; 
But  let  them  rage,  and  'gainst  a  maid  conspire. 
So  deathless  numbers  from  my  tuneful  lyre 
Do  ever  flow  ;  so  PhcEbus,  I  by  thee 
Inspired  divinely,  and  possest  may  be  ; 
I  willingly  accept  Cassandra's  fate, 
To  speak  the  truth,  although  believed  too  late. 


ANNE,   MARCHIONESS   OF   WHARTON.  87 


ANNE,  MARCHIONESS  OF  WHARTON, 

1685, 

Was  the  daughter  of  Sir  Henry  Lee,  of  Ditchley,  in  Oxfordshire, 
and  first  wife  of  Thomas  Wharton,  Esq.,  afterwards  Marquis  of 
Wharton.  She  wrote  Paraphrases  on  The  Lamentations  of 
Jeremiah  and  on  Tlie  Lord's  Prayer ;  Verses  to  Mr.  Waller, 
an  Elegy  on  Lord  Rochester,  the  Poems  quoted  below,  and 
some  other  effusions,  but  not  many.  She  was  highly  esteemed 
in  her  own  day,  and  was  complimented  by  Waller  and  Dryden. 
She  died  in  1685. 

The  following  poem  appears  in  Dryden's  Miscellany  : 


On  the  Snuff  of  a  Candle :  made  in  Sickness. 

See  there  the  taper's  dim  and  doleful  light, 
In  gloomy  waves  rolls  silently  about. 

And  represents  to  my  dim  weary  sight. 
My  light  of  life  almost  as  near  burnt  out. 

Ah,  health  !  best  part  and  substance  of  our  joy, 
(For  without  thee  'tis  nothing  but  a  shade,) 

Why  dost  thou  partially  thyself  employ, 
Whilst  thy  proud  foes  as  partially  invade  ? 

What  we,  who  ne'er  enjoy,  so  fondly  seek, 
Those  who  possess  thee  still,  almost  despise  ; 

To  gain  immortal  glory,  raise  the  weak. 

Taught  by  their  former  want  thy  worth  to  prize. 


Dear,  melancholy  Muse  !  ray  constant  guide, 

Charm  this  coy  health  back  to  my  fainting  heart, 

Or  I'll  accuse  thee  of  vainglorious  pride, 

And  swear  thou  dost  but  feign  the  moving  art. 

But  why  do  I  upbraid  thee,  gentle  Muse, 

Who  for  all  sorrows  mak'st  me  some  amends  ? 

Alas  !  our  sickly  minds  sometimes  abuse 
Our  best  physicians  and  our  dearest  friends. 


How  hardly  I  conceal'd  my  tears  ? 

How  oft  did  I  complain? 
When,  many  tedious  days,  my  fears 

Told  me  I  lov'd  in  vain. 

But  now  my  joys  as  wild  are  grown, 

And  hard  to  be  concealed  ; 
Sorrow  may  make  a  silent  moan, 

But  joy  will  be  reveal'd. 

I  tell  it  to  the  bleating  flocks, 

To  every  stream  and  tree. 
And  bless  the  hollow  murm'ring  rocks 

For  echoing  back  to  me. 

Thus  you  may  see  with  how  much  joy 
We  want,  we  wish,  believe  ; 

'Tis  hard  such  passion  to  destroy. 
But  easy  to  deceive. 


The  Marchioness  of  Wharton's  paraphrase  of  the  53d  chapter 
of  Isaiah  suggested  Waller's  Cantos  of  Divine  Poesy,  and  led 


that  writer  to  address  to  her  several  complimentary  verses. 
Lady  Wharton's  poems  are  distinguished  by  a  fine  sweetness  of 
sentiment,  and  her  thoughts  are  always  very  gracefully  and  deli- 
cately expressed.  Her  productions  are  widely  scattered,  and  are 
to  be  found  in  different  miscellaneous  collections  of  contemporary 
verse. 


12 


H* 


90  MRS.   TAYLOR- 


MRS.    TAYLOR. 

1685. 

In  a  Miscellany,  being  a  Collection  of  Poems  by  several 
Hands,  published  by  Aphara  Behn,  in  1685,  are  the  three 
following  Pieces,  "made  by  Mrs.  Taylor,"  of  whom  there  is  no 
account. 


Ye  virgin  powers,  defend  my  heart 
From  amorous  looks  and  smiles, 

From  saucy  Love,  or  nicer  Art, 
Which  most  our  sex  beguiles  : 

From  sighs  and  vows,  from  awful  fears 

That  do  to  Pity  move, 
From  speaking  silence,  and  from  tears, 

Those  springs  that  water  Love. 

But  if  through  Passion  I  grow  blind, 

Let  Honour  be  my  guide. 
And  where  frail  nature  seems  inclin'd. 

There  fix  a  guard  of  Pride. 

A  heart  whose  flames  are  seen  though  pure. 

Needs  every  virtue's  aid, 
And  those  who  think  themselves  secure. 

The  soonest  are  betray'd. 


TO    MERTILL, 

Who  desired  her  to  speak  to  Clorinda  of  his  love. 

Mertill,  though  my  heart  should  break 

In  granting  thy  desire, 
To  cold  Clorinda  I  will  speak, 

And  Avarra  her  with  my  fire. 

To  save  thee  from  approaching  harm. 

My  death  I  will  obey ; 
To  save  thee  sinking  in  the  storm, 

I'll  cast  myself  away. 

May  her  charms  equal  those  of  thine, 
No  words  can  e'er  express, 

And  let  her  love  be  great  as  mine  ; 
Which  thee  would  only  bless  ! 

Maj-  you  still  prove  her  faithful  slave. 

And  she  so  kind  and  true  ; 
She  nothing  may  desire  to  have, 

Or  fear  to  lose — but  you. 


Strephon  has  fashion,  wit,  and  youtn. 
With  all  things  else  that  please  ; 

He  nothing  wants  but  love  and  trum. 
To  ruin  me  with  ease. 

But  he  is  flint,  and  bears  the  art 

To  kindle  stray  desire  ; 
His  power  inflames  another's  heart. 

Yet  he  ne'er  feels  the  fire. 


MRS.   TAYLOR. 


Alas  '  It  does  my  soul  perplex, 
Wlien  I  his  charms  recall, 

To  lliink  he  should  despise  the  sex, 
Or  what's  worse,  love  them  all. 

My  wearied  heart,  like  Noah's  dove, 
la  vain  may  seek  for  rest, 

Finding-  no  hope  to  fix  my  love, 
Relurns  into  my  breast. 


Tlie  snia;)ihness,  grace,  and  lively  fancy  displayed  in  the  three 
poems  wliifh  I  have  above  quoted  lead  us  to  imagme  that  Mrs. 
Taylor  was  a  practised  writer :  but  I  can  find  no  further  trace  of 
her  than  that  which  is  here  presented.  There  is  something  in 
the  nice  rounding  ofT  of  the  sentences,  and  in  the  soft,  semi- 
vohiptuous  sentiment,  which  makes  me  almost  suspect  that 
"  Mrs.  Taylor"  was  no  other  than  Mrs.  Aphara  Behn  herself. 
To  say  the  least,  of  it,  she  was  evidently  brought  up  in  the  same 
school  of  taste  as  that  which  produced  the  clever  but  meretri- 
cious writer  jusr  named. 


APHARA   BEIIN.  93 


APHARA  BEHN, 

1645—1689, 

Is  one  of  the  most  prominent,  but  one  of  the  least  estimable,  of 
the  British  Female  Poets.  She  has  been  called  "  a  Female 
Wycherley,"  and  there  could  not  well  be  a  more  characteristic 
description  of  her.  To  a  fine  and  subtle  humour  she  joins  great 
grossness  of  thought ;  and  to  a  lively  and  laughing  imagination 
she  unites  an  essential  coarseness  of  passion  which  disfigures 
and  depraves  nearly  all  she  writes.  Allowances  are  of  course  to 
be  made  for  the  wicked  era  in  which  she  flourished  (the  reign  of 
the  second  Charles);  but  still  it  must  be  confessed  that  the  licen- 
tiousness complained  of  is  not  (as  in  some  other  writers  of  the 
same  period)  a  mere  adjunct,  which  can  be  lopped  off",  but  an 
integral  part  of  the  composition,  which  cannot  be  removed  from 
the  rest. 

Aphara  Johnson  was  born  in  1645,  of  a  good  family,  her 
father  being  Lieutenant-Governor  of  Surinam.  At  her  father's 
death  the  family  returned  to  London,  where  she  married  a  Dutch 
merchant,  named  Behn.  She  became  a  favourite  at  court,  and 
displayed  so  much  ability,  that  Charles  the  Second  entrusted  her 
with  several  political  affiiirs  of  importance,  in  which  she  did  the 
state  some  service.  She  was  even  sent  out  to  the  Netherlands 
on  a  secret  mission,  and  was  enabled  to  give  some  valuable 
information  to  the  Government.  On  finding,  however,  that  her 
services  were  not  sufficiently  recognised,  she  quitted  the  stormy 
arena  of  politics,  and  devoted  herself  entirely  to  literary  pursuits. 

Her  chief  works  are  Oronooko,  a  novel,  on  which  Southern's 
traeedv  of  the  same  name  is  founded  ;  a  volume  of  Miscellaneous 
Poems,  and  a  number  of  Plays,  which  are  amongst  the  grossest 
productions  ever  given  to  the  world.     Mrs.  Behn  died  in  1689. 


94  APHARA   BEHN. 


This  lady's  muse  has  been  likened  to  Moore's,  and  not,  I 
think,  without  some  reason.  She  exhibits  the  same  liveliness 
and  pointedness  of  fancy,  and  writes  with  an  aptness  and  happy 
expressiveness  which  might  easily  be  mistaken  for  the  similar 
characteristics  of  Ireland's  bard.  The  following  lyric  has  quite 
the  expression  of  Moore,  although  it  is  deficient  in  the  point 
which  always  distinguishes  that  writer. 


Love  in  fantastic  triumph  sat. 

Whilst  bleeding  hearts  around  him  flow'd ; 
For  whom  fresh  pains  he  did  create. 

And  strange  tyrannic  power  he  show'd. 
From  thy  bright  eyes  he  took  his  fires 

Which  round  about  in  sport  he  hurl'd ; 
But  'twas  from  mine  he  took  desires 

Enough  t'  undo  the  amorous  world. 

From  me  he  took  his  sighs  and  tears, 

From  thee  his  pride  and  cruelty  ; 
From  me  his  languishment  and  fears, 

And  every  killing  dart  from  thee  ; 
Thus  thou  and  I  the  god  have  arm'd. 

And  set  him  up  a  deity  ; 
But  my  poor  heart  alone  is  harm'd ; 

Whilst  thine  the  victor  is,  and  free. 


I  quote,  next,  a  poem,  entitled, 

THE    DIFFERENCE    BETWEEN    HYMEN    AND    CUPID- 
MARRIAGE    AND    LOVE. 

In  vain  does  Hymen  with  religious  vows 

Oblige  his  slaves  to  wear  his  cliains  with  ease, 

A  privilege  alone  that  Love  allows  : — 

'Tis  Love  alone  can  make  our  fetters  please. 


The  angry  tyrant  lays  his  yoke  on  all, 
Yet  in  his  fiercest  rage  is  charming  still ; 

Officious  Hymen  comes  whene'er  we  call, 
But  haughty  Love  comes  only  when  he  will. 


For  fluency  and  harmony  of  style,  Mrs.  Behn  has  scarcely  a 
superior  in  our  language.  I  do  not  know  a  poem  that  flows 
more  smoothly  and  musically  than  the  following :  — 


THK    RETURN. 


Amyntas !  whilst  you 

Have  an  art  to  subdue, 
And  can  conquer  a  heart  with  a  look  or  a  smile ; 

You  pitiless  grow. 

And  no  faith  will  allow  ; 
'Tis  the  glory  you  seek  when  you  rifle  the  spoil. 

Your  soft  warring  eyes. 

When  prepared  for  the  prize. 
Can  laugh  at  the  aids  of  my  feeble  disdain  : 

You  can  humble  the  foe. 

And  soon  make  her  to  know, 
Though  she  arms  her  with  pride,  that  her  efforts  are  vain. 

But,  shepherd !  beware. 

Though  a  victor  you  are, 
A  tyrant  was  never  secure  on  his  throne ; 

Whilst  proudly  you  aim 

New  conquests  to  gain, 
Some  hard-hearted  nymph  may  return  you  your  own ! 


96  APHARA   BEHN. 


IN  IMITATION    OF    HORACE. 

What  mean  those  amorous  curls  of  jet? 

For  what  heart-ravish'd  maid 
Dost  tliou  thy  hair  in  order  set, 

Thy  wanton  tresses  braid  ? 
And  thy  vast  stores  of  beauties  open  lay, 
That  the  deluded  fancy  leads  astray  ? 

For  pity  hide  thy  starry  eyes, 
Who?e  lanfruishments  destroy  ; 

And  look  not  on  the  slave  that  dies 
With  an  excess  of  joy. 

Defend  thy  coral  lips,  thy  amber  breath  ; 

To  taste  these  sweets,  alas  !  is  certain  death. 


LADY  MARY   CHUDLEIGH.  97 


LADY  MARY   CHUDLEIGH, 

1656—1710, 

Was  the  author  of  a  book  entitled  Poems  on  several  Occasions, 
and  published  in  London  in  the  year  1703.  She  was  the  daugh- 
ter of  Richard  Lee,  Esquire,  of  Winsloder,  in  Devonshire,  and 
wife  of  Sir  George  Chudleigh,  Baronet,  of  Ashton,  in  the  same 
county.  She  was  born  in  1656,  and  died  in  1710.  Besides  ner 
poems,  she  was  the  author  of  a  volume  of  Essays,  which  was 
published  in  1710. 

THE    RESOLVE. 

For  what  the  world  admires  I'll  wish  no  more, 

Nor  court  that  airy  nothing  of  a  Name  ; 
Such  fleeting  shadows  let  the  proud  adore. 

Let  them  be  suppliants  for  an  empty  fame. 

If  Reason  rules  within  and  keeps  the  throne. 

While  the  inferior  faculties  obey. 
And  all  her  laws  without  reluctance  own. 

Accounting  none  more  fit,  more  just  than  they ; 

If  Virtue  my  free  soul  unsullied  keeps, 
Exempting  it  from  passion  and  from  stain  ; 

If  no  black  guilty  thoughts  disturb  my  sleeps. 

And  no  past  crimes  my  vext  remembrance  pain : — 

If  though  I  pleasure  find  in  living  here, 
I  yet  can  look  on  death  without  surprise ; 

If  I've  a  soul  above  the  reach  of  fear. 

And  which  will  nothing  mean  or  sordid  prize  • 
13  I 


98  LADY    MARY   CHUDLEIGH. 


A  soul  which  cannot  be  depress'd  by  grief, 
Nor  too  much  rais'd  by  the  subUmest  joy ; 

Which  can,  when  troubled,  give  itself  relief, 
And  to  advantage  all  its  thoughts  employ;  — 

Then  am  I  happy  in  my  humble  state, 

Although  not  crown'd  with  glory  nor  with  bays  ; 

A  mind  that  triumplis  over  vice  and  fate 

Esteems  it  mean  to  court  the  world  [or  praise. 


Lady  Chudleigh  distinguished  herself  by  her  clever  champion- 
ship of  her  sex  at  a  time  when  the  female  mind  was  far  too  little 
esteemed.  There  is  a  noble  assertion  and  defence  of  Woman's 
mental  powers  in  her  Poem  entitled  The  Ladies^  Defence;  or 
the  Bride-woman^ s  Counsellor  ansivered.  A  Poem  hi  a  Dia- 
logue between  Sir  John  Brute,  Sir  IVilliam  LoveaU,  Melissa, 
and  a  Parson.  The  poor  parson  is  admirably  put  down.  I  re- 
gret that  I  cannot  find  an  extractable  passage  which  will  give  a 
good  idea  of  the  genius  and  good  sense  displayed  in  this  produc- 
tion- 

I  think,  however,  that  Lady  Chudleigh  could  f?f/c?KZ  her  sex 
much  more  wisely  than  she  could  advise  them.  Let  the  follow- 
ing lines  bear  witness  :  — 

TO    THE    LADIES. 

Wife  and  servant  are  the  same, 
But  only  differ  in  the  name  : 
For  when  that  fatal  knot  is  tied, 
Which  nothing,  nothing,  can  divide, 
When  she  the  word  obey  has  said, 
And  man  by  law  supreme  has  made, 
Then  all  that's  kind  is  laid  aside. 
And  nothing  left  but  state  and  pride  : 
Fierce  as  an  Eastern  prince  he  grows, 
And  all  his  innate  rigour  shows  : 


Then  but  to  look,  to  laugh,  or  speak, 
Will  the  nuptial  contract  break. 
Like  mutes,  she  signs  alone  must  make, 
And  never  any  freedom  take  ; 
But  still  be  govern'd  by  a  nod, 
And  fear  her  husband  as  her  god  ; 
Him  still  must  serve,  him  still  obey, 
And  nothing  act  and  nothing  say, 
But  vi'hat  her  haughty  lord  thinks  fit. 
Who  with  the  power  has  all  the  wit. 
Then  shun,  oh  !  shun  that  wretched  state, 
And  all  the  fawning  flatterers  hate : 
Value  yourselves,  and  men  despise : 
You  must  be  proud,  if  you'll  be  wise. 


THE   HONOURABLE   MARY   MONK, 

1715, 

Was  the  daughter  of  Lord  Molesworth,  of  Ireland,  and  the  Avife 
of  George  Monk,  Esq.  In  1715  was  pubhshed,  after  her  death, 
a  volume  entitled  Marinda:  Poems  and  Translations.  In  the 
Dedication  to  the  Princess  of  Wales,  written  by  her  lather,  we 
are  told  "  Most  of  them  are  the  product  of  the  leisure  hours  of  a 
young  gentlewoman,  lately  deceased ;  who,  in  a  remote  country 
retirement,  without  omitting  the  daily  care  due  to  a  large  family, 
not  only  perfectly  acquired  several  languages,  but  the  good  morals 
and  principles  contained  in  those  books,  so  as  to  put  them  in 
practice,  as  well  during  her  life  and  languishing  sickness  as  the 
hour  of  death :  in  short,  she  died  not  only  like  a  Christian,  but 
like  a  Roman  lady;  and  so  became  at  once  the  object  of  the 
grief  and  comfort  of  her  relations." 

The  following  are  extracted  from  the  book  referred  to :  — 


I.   FROM    THE    EPISTLE    TO    MARINDA. 

A  just  applause  and  an  immortal  name 

Is  the  true  object  of  the  Poet's  aim  ; 

In  quest  of  this  they  boldly  quit  the  shore, 

And  dangerous  seas  and  unknown  lands  explore. 

In  the  whole  plan  their  interest  has  no  share, 

The  goods  of  fortune  are  beneath  their  care  : 

They  on  the  smoke  of  public  incense  live. 

Look  down  on  wealth,  and  think  it  mean  to  thrive. 


THE  HONOURABLE  MARY  MONK.         101 


II.     ON    PROVIDENCE. 

As  a  kind  mother  with  indulgent  eye 

Views  her  fair  charge,  and  melts  with  sympathy, 

And  one's  dear  face  imprints  with  kisses  sweet, 

One  to  her  bosom  clasps,  one  on  her  knee 

Sofdy  sustains  in  pleasing  dignity. 

And  one  permits  to  cling  about  her  feet ; 

And  reads  their  various  wants,  and  each  request 

In  look  or  action  or  in  sigh  express'd  : 

This  little  supplicant  in  gracious  style 

She  answers  ;  that  she  blesses  with  a  smile  ; 

Or  if  she  blames  their  suit,  or  if  approves, 

And  whether  pleas'd  or  griev'd,  yet  still  she  loves 

With  like  regard  liigh  Providence  divine 
Watches  affectionate  o'er  human  race, 

One  feeds,  one  comforts,  does  to  all  incline, 
And  each  assists  with  kind  parental  care  ; 
Or,  once  denying  us  some  needful  grace. 

Only  denies  to  move  an  ardent  prayer ; 
Or,  courted  for  imaginary  wants, 
Seems  to  deny,  but  in  denying  grants. 


Ill,    VERSES 

Written  on  her  Deathbed,  at  Bath,  to  her  Husband  in  Undon. 

Thou  who  dost  all  my  worldly  thoughts  employ, 
Thou  pleasing  source  of  all  my  earthly  joy, 
Thou  tenderest  husband  and  thou  dearest  friend, 
To  thee  this  first,  this  last  adieu  I  send  ! 
At  length  the  conqueror  Death  asserts  his  right. 
And  will  for  ever  veil  me  from  thy  sight  ; 
I* 


102        THE  HONOURABLE  MARY  MONK. 

He  woos  me  to  him  with  a  cheerful  grace, 
And  not  one  terror  clouds  his  meagre  face  ; 
He  promises  a  lasting  rest  from  pain, 
And  shews  that  all  life's  fleeting  joys  are  vain  : 
The'  eternal  scenes  of  heaven  he  sets  in  view, 
And  tells  me  that  no  other  joys  are  true. 
But  love,  fond  love,  would  yet  resist  his  power. 
Would  fain  awhile  defer  the  parting  hour: 
He  brings  thy  mourning  image  to  my  eyes, 
And  would  obstruct  my  journey  to  the  skies. 
But  say,  thou  dearest,  thou  unwearied  friend ! 
Say,  shouldst  thou  grieve  to  see  my  sorrows  end  ? 
Thou  know'st  a  painful  pilgrimage  I've  past ; 
And  shouldst  thou  grieve  that  rest  is  come  at  last ' 
Rather  rejoice  to  see  me  shake  off"  life, 
And  die  as  I  have  liv'd,  thy  faithful  wife. 


ANNE,  COUNTESS  OF  WINCHELSEA, 

1720, 

Was  the  daughter  of  Sir  William  Kinffsmill,  of  Sidmonton,  in 
the  county  of  Southampton.  She  was  Maid  of  Honour  to  the 
Duchess  of  York,  second  wife  of  James  the  Second,  and  married 
Heneage,  Earl  of  Winchelsea,     She  died  in  1720, 

Her  poems  have  been  highly  admired  for  their  simplicity  and 
naturalness.  She  seems  to  have  been  the  precursor  of  the  school 
of  Cowper.  "  It  is  remarkable,"  says  Wordsworth,  "  that 
excepting  The  Nocturnal  Reverie  (one  of  Lady  Winchelsea's 
poems),  and  the  Tflndsor  Forest  of  Pope,  the  poetry  of  the  period 
intervening  between  the  publications  of  Paradise  Lost  and  The 
Seasons  does  not  contain  a  single  new  image  of  external  nature." 


A    NOCTURNAL    REVERIE. 

In  such  a  night,  when  every  louder  wind 

Is  to  its  distant  cavern  safe  confin'd, 

And  only  gentle  Zephyr  fans  his  wings. 

And  lonely  Philomel,  still  waking,  sings ; 

Or  from  some  tree,  fam'd  for  the  owl's  delight, 

She,  hollowing  clear,  directs  the  wanderer  right: 

In  such  a  night,  when  passing  clouds  give  place, 

Or  thinly  veil  the  heavens'  mysterious  face; 

When  in  some  river,  overhung  with  green. 

The  waving  moon  and  trembling  leaves  are  seen ; 

When  freshen'd  grass  now  bears  itself  upright, 

And  makes  cool  banks  to  pleasing  rest  invite, 


Whence  springs  the  woodbine  and  the  bramble-rose, 

And  where  the  sleepy  cowslip  shelter'd  grows  ; 

Whilst  now  a  paler  hue  the  foxglove  takes, 

Yet  chequers  still  with  red  the  dusky  brakes  ; 

When  scatter'd  glow-worms,  but  in  twilight  fine. 

Show  trivial  beauties  watch  their  hour  to  shine; 

Whilst  Sal'sbury  stands  the  test  of  every  light. 

In  perfect  charms  and  perfect  virtue  bright : 

When  odours  which  declin'd  repelling  day. 

Through  temperate  air  uninterrupted  stray ; 

When  darken'd  groves  their  softest  shadows  wear. 

And  falling  waters  we  distinctly  hear; 

When  through  the  gloom  more  venerable  shows 

Some  ancient  fabric,  awful  in  repose  ; 

AVhile  sun-burnt  hills  their  swarthy  looks  conceal. 

And  swelling  hay-cocks  thicken  up  the  vale: 

When  the  loos'd  horse  now,  as  his  pasture  leads, 

Comes  slowly  grazing  through  the'  adjoining  meads, 

Whose  stealing  pace,  and  lengthen'd  shade  we  fear, 

Till  torn  up  forage  in  his  teeth  we  hear; 

When  nibbling  sheep  at  large  pursue  their  food. 

And  unmolested  kine  rechew  the  cud  ; 

When  curlews  cry  beneath  the  village  walls, 

And  to  her  straggling  brood  the  partridge  calls ; 

Their  short  lived  jubilee  the  creatures  keep, 

AVhich  but  endures  whilst  tyrant  man  does  sleep ; 

When  a  sedate  content  the  spirit  feels. 

And  no  fierce  light  disturbs,  whilst  it  reveals ; 

But  silent  musings  urge  the  mind  to  seek 

Something  too  high  for  syllables  to  speak ; 

Till  the  free  soul  to  a  composedness  charm'd. 

Finding  the  elements  of  rage  disarm'd, 

O'er  all  below  a  solemn  quiet  grown, 

Joys  in  the'  inferior  world,  and  thinks  it  like  her  own 

In  such  a  night  let  me  abroad  remain, 

Till  morning  breaks,  and  all  's  confus'd  again ; 

Our  cares,  our  toils,  our  clamours  are  renewed. 

Or  pleasures,  seldom  reached,  again  pursued. 


ANNE,  COUNTESS  OF  WINCHELSEA.  105 

In  reply  to  some  lines  of  Pope's  addressed  to  her  concerning 
The  Rape  of  the  Lock,  the  Countess  writes  thus  playfully  to  her 
clever  antagonist ;  — 

Disarm'd  with  so  genteel  an  air, 

The  contest  I  give  o'er ; 
Yet,  Alexander,  have  a  care, 

And  shock  the  sex  no  more. 

We  rule  the  world  our  whole  life's  space  ; 

Men  but  assume  that  right ; 
First  slaves  to  every  tempting  face, 

Then  martyrs  to  our  spite. 

You  of  one  Orpheus  sure  have  read, 

Who  would  like  you  have  writ. 
Had  he  in  London  town  been  bred, 

And  polish'd,  too,  his  wit. 

But  he,  poor  soul !  thought  all  was  well. 

And  great  should  be  his  fame, 
When  he  had  left  his  wife  in  hell, 

And  birds  and  beasts  could  tame. 

Yet  venturing  then  with  scoffing  rhymes, 

The  women  to  incense. 
Resenting  heroines  of  those  times 

Soon  punish'd  his  offence. 

And  as  the  Hebrews  roU'd  his  scull. 

And  harp  besmear'd  with  blood. 
They  clashing  as  the  waves  grew  full. 

Still  harmonis'd  the  flood. 

But  you  our  follies  gently  treat, 

And  spin  so  fine  the  thread, 
You  need  not  fear  his  awkward  fate, 

The  Lock  won't  cost  the  Head. 
14 


106  ANNE,   COUNTESS  OF   WINCHELSEA. 


Our  admiration  you  command, 

For  all  that's  gone  before  ; 
What  next  we  look  for  at  your  hand 

Can  .only  raise  it  more. 

Yet,  sooth,  the  ladies  I  advise 

(As  me  to  pride  has  wrought), 
We're  born  to  wit,  but  to  be  wise 

By  admonitions  taught. 

The  following,  for  aptness  and  point,  might  have  come  from 
the  pen  of  Cowper  :  — 

THE    ATHEIST    AND    THE     ACORN. 

Methinks  the  world  is  oddly  made, 

And  every  thing  's  amiss, 
A  dull,  presuming  Atheist  said, 
As  stretch'd  he  lay  beneath  a  shade, 

And  instane'd  it  in  this : 

Behold,  quoth  he,  that  mighty  thing, 

A  pumpkin  large  and  round, 
Is  held  but  by  a  little  string, 
Which  upwards  cannot  make  it  spring, 

Or  bear  it  from  the  ground. 

While  on  this  oak  an  acorn  small, 

So  disproportion'd  grows  ; 
That  who  with  sense  surveys  this  all, 
This  universal  casual  ball, 

Its  ill  contrivance  knows. 

My  better  judgment  would  have  hung 

The  pumpkin  on  the  tree. 
And  left  the  acorn,  lightly  strung, 
'Mongst  things  which  on  the  surface  sprung, 

And  small  and  feeble  be. 


ANNE,   COUNTESS   OF   WINCHELSEA.  107 


No  more  the  caviller  could  say, 

Nor  farther  faults  descry  ; 
For  as  he  upwards  gazing  lay, 
An  acorn,  loosen'd  from  its  stay, 

Fell  down  upon  his  eye. 

The  wounded  part  with  tears  ran  o'er. 

As  punish'd  for  the  sin ; 
Fool !  had  that  bough  a  pumpkin  bore, 
Thy  whimsies  would  have  work'd  no  more. 

Nor  scull  have  kept  them  in. 


In   the   ensuing   extract,  too,  there   is   much   well-expressed 
thought  and  harmonious  versification. 


LIFE  S  PROGRESS. 

How  gaily  is  at  first  begun 

Our  life's  uncertain  race  ! 
Whilst  yet  that  sprightly  morning  sun. 
With  which  we  just  set  out  to  run. 

Enlightens  all  the  place. 

How  smiling  the  world's  prospect  lies, 

How  tempting  to  go  through  ! 
Not  Canaan  to  the  prophet's  eyes, 
From  Pisgah,  with  a  sweet  surprise. 
Did  more  inviting  shew. 

How  soft  the  first  ideas  prove. 

Which  wander  through  our  minds  ! 
How  full  the  joys,  how  free  the  love, 
Which  does  that  early  season  move, 
As  flow'rs  the  western  winds  ! 


X08  ANNE,  COUNTESS  OF   WINCHELSEA. 


Our  sighs  are  then  but  vernal  air, 

But  April  drops  our  tears, 
Which  swiftly  passing,  all  grows  fair. 
Whilst  beauty  compensates  our  care, 

And  youth  each  vapour  clears. 

But  oh  !  too  soon,  alas  !  we  climb. 

Scarce  feeling,  we  ascend 
The  gently  rising  hill  of  Time, 
From  whence  with  grief  we  see  that  prime* 

And  all  its  sweetness  end. 

The  die  now  cast,  our  station  known. 

Fond  expectation  past ; 
The  thorns  which  former  days  had  sown 
To  crops  of  late  repentance  grown. 
Through  which  we  toil  at  last. 

Whilst  every  care  's  a  driving  harm, 

That  helps  to  bear  us  down  ; 
Which  faded  smiles  no  more  can  charm 
But  every  tear  's  a  winter-storm. 

And  every  look  's  a  frown. 


SONG. 


Would  we  attain  the  happiest  slate 
That  is  design'd  us  here  ; 

No  joy  a  rapture  must  create. 
No  grief  beget  despair 

No  injury  fierce  anger  raise, 
No  honour  tempt  to  pride; 

No  vain  desires  of  empty  praise 
Must  in  the  soul  abide  : 


ANNE.   COUNTESS   OF   WINCHELSEA.  109 


No  charms  of  youth  or  beauty  move 
The  constant  settled  breast : 

Who  leaves  a  passage  free  to  love, 
Shall  let  in  all  the  rest. 

In  such  a  heart  soft  peace  will  live, 
Where  none  of  these  abound  ; 

The  greatest  blessing  Heav'n  does  give, 
Or  can  on  earth  be  found. 


One  of  Lady  Winchelsea's  most  powerful  productions  is  her 
poem  called  The  Spleen.  I  extract  a  few  lines  from  this  fine 
apostrophe : 

Patron  thou  art  to  every  gross  abuse, 

The  sullen  husband's  feign'd  excuse. 
When  the  ill  humour  with  his  wife  he  spends, 
And  bears  recruited  wit  and  spirits  to  his  friends. 

The  son  of  Bacchus  pleads  thy  power. 

As  to  the  glass  he  still  repairs 

Pretends  but  to  remove  thy  cares, 
Snatch  from  thy  shades  one  gay  and  smiling  hour, 
And  drown  thy  kingdom  in  a  purple  shower. 

*  *  *  * 

By  thee,  Religion,  all  we  know 
That  should  enlighten  here  below. 
Is  veil'd  in  darkness,  and  perplext 
With  anxious  doubts,  with  endless  scruples  vext, 
And  some  restraint  implied  from  each  perverted  text : 
Whilst  Touch  not.  Taste  not,  what  is  freely  given. 
Is  but  thy  niggard  voice,  disgracing  bounteous  Heaven. 


no  ESTHER  VANHOMRIGH. 


ESTHER  VANHOMRIGH. 

1691—1721. 
The  "Vanessa"  of  Swift;  to  whom  the  following  lines  refer. 

ODE    TO    SPRING. 

Hail,  blushing  goddess,  beauteous  Spring  ! 
Who  in  thy  jocund  train  doth  bring 
Loves  and  graces,  smiling  hours, 
Balmy  breezes,  fragrant  flowers  ; 
Come,  with  tints  of  roseate  hue, 
Nature's  faded  charms  renew. 

Yet  why  should  I  thy  presence  hail  ? 

To  me  no  more  the  breathing  gale 

Comes  fraught  with  sweets,  no  more  the  rose 

"With  such  transcendent  beauty  blows. 

As  when  Cadenus  blest  the  scene, 

And  shared  Avith  me  those  joys  serene. 

When,  unperceiv'd,  the  lambent  fire 

Of  friendship  kindled  new  desire ; 

Still  listening  to  his  tuneful  tongue, 

The  truths  which  angels  might  have  sung 

Divine  imprest  their  genlle  sway. 

And  sweetly  stole  my  soul  away. 

My  guide,  instructor,  lover,  friend. 
Dear  names,  in  one  idea  blend  ; 
Oh !  still  conjoin'd,  your  incense  rise. 
And  waft  sweet  odours  to  the  skies. 


SUSANNA   CENTLIVRE.  Ill 


SUSANNA   CENTLIVRE, 

1660—1723, 

Was  born  about  1660.  Her  maiden  name  was  Freeman.  Her 
third  husband,  Joseph  Centlivre,  was  one  of  Queen  Anne's  cooks. 
He  fell  in  love  with  her  at  Windsor,  where  she  performed  the 
part  of  Alexander  the  Great,  in  Lee's  play  of  that  name.  She 
will  long  be  remembered  as  the  authoress  of  The  JVonder,  The 
Busy  Body,  and  other  clever  but  gross  comedies. 

The  following  is  the  Prologue  to  her  Play  of  A  Bold  Stroke 
for  a  Wife :  — 

To-night  we  come  upon  a  bold  design. 

To  try  to  please  without  one  borrowed  line  : 

Our  plot  is  new  and  regularly  clear. 

And  not  one  single  tittle  from  Moliere. 

O'er  buried  poets  we  with  caution  tread, 

And  parish  sextons  leave  to  rob  the  dead. 

For  you,  bright  British  fair,  in  hopes  to  charm  ye. 

We  bring  to-night  a  lover  from  the  army. 

You  know  the  soldiers  have  the  strangest  arts, 

Such  a  proportion  of  prevailing  parts. 

You  'd  think  that  they  rid  post  to  women's  hearts. 

I  wonder  whence  they  draw  their  bold  pretence  ; 

We  do  not  choose  them  sure  for  our  defence  : 

That  plea  is  both  impolitic  and  wrong, 

And  only  suits  such  dames  as  want  a  tongue. 

Is  it  their  eloquence  and  fine  address  ? 

The  softness  of  their  language  ?  —  Nothing  less. 

Is  it  their  courage,  that  they  bravely  dare 

To  storm  the  sex  at  once  ?  —  Egad  !  'tis  there  : 


112  SUSANNA   CENTLIVRE. 

Thev  ant  by  us  as  in  the  rough  campaign  ; 

Unmindful  of  repulses,  charge  again  : 

They  mine  and  countermine,  resolv'd  to  win. 

And  if  a  breach  is  made,  they  will  come  in. 

You  '11  think  by  what  we  have  of  soldiers  said, 

Our  female  wit  was  in  the  ser\'ice  bred  : 

But  she  is  to  the  hardy  toil  a  stranger ; 

She  loves  the  cloth,  indeed,  but  hates  the  danger; 

Yet  to  this  circle  of  the  brave  and  gay 

She  bids  one,  for  her  good  intentions,  say 

She  hopes  you  '11  not  reduce  her  to  half-pay. 

As  for  our  Play,  'tis  English  humour  all  ; 

Then  will  you  let  our  manufacture  fall  ? 

Would  you  the  honour  of  our  nation  raise. 

Keep  English  credit  up,  and  English  plays. 


MRS.  CATHERINE    COCKBURN  113 


MRS.  CATHERINE  COCKBURN. 

1679—1749. 

This  lady  was  the  daughter  of  Captain  David  Trotter,  a  Scot- 
tish gentleman,  who  lived  in  the  reign  of  Charles  the  Second,  to 
whom  he  was  well  known,  and  who  called  him  "honest  David." 
Our  authoress  was  born  in  1679,  and  gave  early  marks  of  genius. 
At  fourteen  she  wrote  very  excellent  verses ;  and  at  seventeen 
produced  a  tragedy,  called  Agnes  de  Castro,  which  was  acted 
with  great  success  at  the  Royal  Theatre.  In  1700,  when  twenty- 
one  years  of  a^e,  we  find  her  to  be  one  of  nine  ladies  who  wrote 
a  joint  work,  entitled  T7ie  Nine  Muses,  or  Poems  ivritten  by  so 
many  Ladies  upon  the  Death  of  the  late  famous  John  Dry  den, 
Esquire.  About  this  time  she  married  Mr.  Cockburn,  a  clergy- 
man, who  falling  into  a  scruple  about  the  oath  of  abjuration,  was 
obliged  to  give  up  his  curacy.  Notwithstanding  the  difficulties 
and  privations  she  had  to  endure  under  these  circumstances,  Mrs. 
Cockburn  appears  to  have  followed  her  literary  pursuits  with 
even  greater  ardour  ;  and  she  wrote,  besides  her  plays  and  poems, 
some  remarkably  clever  and  acute  treatises  in  defence  of  the  phi- 
losophy of  Locke.  Her  Vindication  of  Locke's  Christian  Prin- 
ciples is  an  extremely  powerful  piece  of  reasoning. 

After  suffering  some  considerable  changes  of  fortune,  Mrs. 
Cockburn  died  on  the  1 1th  of  May,  1749,  in  the  seventieth  year 
of  her  age. 

Her  poetry  has  a  compression  of  thought  and  an  ease  of  style 
which  greatly  distinguished  it  from  the  verse  of  most  female  wri- 
ters in  her  time. 

15  K* 


THE    CAUTION. 

Soft  kisses  may  be  innocent, 

But  ah  !  too  easy  maid,  beware  ; 

Though  that  is  all  thy  kindness  meant, 
'Tis  love's  delusive  fatal  snare. 

No  virgin  e'er  at  first  design'd 

Through  all  tlie  maze  of  love  to  stray  ; 
But  each  new  path  allures  her  mind, 

Till,  wandering  on,  she  lose  her  wny- 

'Tis  easy  ere  set  out  to  stay  ; 

But  who  the  useful  art  can  teach, 
Wlien  sliding  down  a  steepy  way, 

To  stop,  before  the  end  we  reach? 

Keep  ever  something  in  thy  power 
Beyond  what  would  thy  honour  stiiin  j 

He  will  not  dare  to  aim  at  more, 

Who  for  small  favours  sighs  in  vain. 


THE    VAIN    ADVICE. 


Ah,  gaze  not  on  those  eyes!  forbear 
That  soft  enclianting  voice  to  hear  : 
Not  looks  of  basilisks  give  surer  death 
Nor  Syrens  sing  with  more  destructive  breath. 

Fly,  if  thy  freedom  thou  'dst  maintain  : 

Alas  !  I  feel  the  advice  is  vain  ! 
A  heart  whose  safety  but  in  flight  does  lie, 
Is  too  far  lost  to  have  the  power  to  fly. 


ELIZABETH   THOMAS. 

1675—1730. 

The  following  poem  from  the  pen  of  this  lady  had  a  singular 
origin.  Mrs.  Thomas  became  much  disturbed  in  her  mind 
respecting  the  doctrine  of  predestination,  and,  after  studying  the 
cnief  writers  on  that  subject,  found  herself,  as  many  besides  her 
have  done,  more  and  more  perplexed.  Upon  this  she  retired 
(as  is  related  in  her  Memoirs)  to  her  closet,  where,  after  a  most 
serious  discussion  of  this  point  with  herself,  she  formed  the  fol- 
lowing poem  ;  which  she  often  read  to  confirm  her  in  her  senti- 
ments.    It  is  a  fine  burst  of  womanlv  faith. 


PREDESTINATION  ;    OR    THE    RESOLUTION. 

Ah  !  Strive  no  more  to  know  what  fate 
Is  pre-ordain' d  for  thee  : 

'Tis  vain  in  this  my  mortal  state, 
For  Heaven's  inscrutable  decree 

Will  only  be  reveal'd  in  vast  Eternity. 
Then,  O  my  soul  ! 

Remember  thy  celestial  birth. 

And  live  to  Heaven  while  here  on  earth : 
Thy  God  is  infinitely  true  — 
All  Justice,  yet  all  Mercy,  too  : 
To  him,  then,  through  thy  Saviour  pray 
For  grace,  to  guide  thee  on  thy  way, 
And  give  thee  Will  to  do. 

But  humbly,  for  the  rest,  my  soul ! 

Let  Hope,  and  Faith,  the  limits  be 

Of  thy  presumptuous  curiosity  ! 


116  ELIZABETH   THOMAS. 

In  the  Life,  of  Mrs.  Thomas,  prefixed  to  Pylades  and  Corinna 
(2d  edit.  1736),  the  authoress  relates  the  history  of  this  poem,  as 
given  above.  She  goes  on  to  say  that  "  she  languished  for  some 
time  in  perplexity  upon  the  awful  subject  of  Fate  and  Freewill ; 
and  hearing  that  Bishop  Burnet's  Exposition  of  the  Thirty-nine 
Articles  was  in  the  press,  she  waited  the  publication  with  the 
utmost  impatience.  But  alas  !  she  was  never  the  nearer :  for 
the  Bishop  stated  the  different  opinions  of  each  sect  with  such 
candour,  that  it  was  impossible  to  find  out  which  he  most  leaned 
to  himself." 

Mrs.  Thomas  received  from  Dryden  the  poetical  name  of 
Corinna ;  and  she  figures  in  The  Dunciad, 


MARY  BARBER.  117 


MARY   BAllBER. 

1734. 

Or  this  lady  I  have  been  able  to  learn  but  little.  All  that  I 
can  say  of  her  is  that  she  was  the  wife  of  a  tradesman  in  Dublin, 
and  that,  in  1734,  she  published  a  volume  of  poems,  prefaced  by 
a  letter  from  Dean  Swift  to  John,  Earl  of  Orrery.  I  have  never 
been  able  to  meet  with  this  book,  although  I  have  diligently 
searched  for  it.  For  the  following  extract  I  am  indebted  to  the 
Reverend  Mr.  Dyce  s  Specimens  of  British  Poetesses. 


ON    SENDING    MY    SON    AS    A  PRESENT    TO    DR.    SWIFT,    DEAN    OF 

ST.  Patrick's,  on  his  birthday. 

A  curious  statue,  we  are  told. 

Is  priz'd  above  its  weight  in  gold ; 

If  the  fair  form  the  hand  confess 

Of  Phidias,  or  Praxiteles  : 

But  if  the  artist  could  inspire 

The  smallest  spark  of  heavenly  fire. 

Though  but  enough  to  make  it  walk. 

Salute  the  company,  or  talk, 

This  would  advance  the  prize  so  high. 

What  prince  were  rich  enough  to  buy  ? 

Such  if  Hibernia  coukl  obtain. 

She  sure  would  give  it  to  the  Dean  : 

So  to  her  patriot  should  she  pay 

Her  thanks  upon  his  natal  day. 


118  MARY  BARBER. 


A  richer  present  I  design, 
A  finished  form,  of  work  divine, 
Surpassing  all  the  power  of  art ; 
A  thinking  head,  a  grateful  heart : 
A  heart  that  hopes,  one  day,  to  show 
How  much  we  to  the  Drapier  owe. 
Kings  could  not  send  a  nobler  giftf 
A  meaner  were  unworthy  Swift 


MRS.  ELIZABETH  ROWE.  119 


MRS.   ELIZABETH    ROWE, 

1736, 

Was  the  daughter  of  Mr.  Walter  Singer,  a  gentleman  of  good 
family  in  London.  In  her  twenty-second  year  she  published  a 
volume  of  poems,  which  met  with  much  success.  In  1710  she 
married  iMr,  Thomas  Rowe,  a  literary  gentleman,  who  died  a 
few  years  after  their  marriage.  Mrs.  Rowe  died  in  1736.  She 
is  well  known  as  the  writer  of  a  work  entitled  Letters  from  the 
Dead  to  the  Living. 

HYMN. 

The  glorious  armies  of  the  sky 

To  Thee,  Almighty  King, 
Triumphant  anthems  consecrate, 

And  hallelujahs  sing. 

But  still  their  most  exalted  flights 

Fall  vastly  short  of  Thee  : 
How  distant  then  must  human  praise 

From  Thy  perfection  be  ! 

Yet  how,  my  God,  shall  I  refrain. 

When  to  my  ravish' d  sense 
Each  creature  every  where  around 

Displays  thy  excellence  ? 

The  active  lights  that  shine  above. 

In  their  eternal  dance. 
Reveal  their  skilful  Maker's  praise 

With  silent  elegance. 


120  MRS.   ELIZABETH  ROWE. 


The  blushes  of  the  morn  confess 
Thai  thou  art  still  more  fair, 

When  in  the  East  its  beams  revive, 
To  gild  the  fields  of  air. 

The  fragrant,  the  refreshing  breeze, 

Of  every  flowery  bloom. 
In  balmy  whispers  own  from  Thee 

Their  pleasing  odours  come. 

The  singing  birds,  the  warbling  winds 
And  water's  murmuring  fall ; 

To  praise  the  First  Almighty  Cause 
With  diflerent  voices  call. 

Thy  numerous  Works  exalt  Thee  thus, 

And  shall  I  silent  be  ? 
No  ;  rather  let  me  cease  to  breathe. 

Than  cease  from  praising  Thee  ! 


Oh !  lead  me  to  some  solitary  gloom. 

Where  no  enlivening  beams  nor  cheerful  echoes  come ; 

But  silent  all,  and  dusky  let  it  be, 

Remote  and  unfrequented  but  by  me ; 

Mysterious,  close,  and  sullen  as  that  grief 

Which  leads  me  to  its  covert  for  relief. 

Far  from  the  busy  world's  detested  noise. 

Its  wretched  pleasures,  and  distracted  joys; 

Far  from  the  jolly  fools,  who  lauoh  and  play. 

And  dance,  and  sing,  impertinenily  gay, 

Their  sliort  inestimable  hours  away; 

Far  from  the  studious  follies  of  the  great, 

The  tiresome  farce  of  ceremonious  state. 

There,  in  a  melting,  solemn,  dying  strain. 


Let  me  all  day  upon  my  lyre  complain, 
And  wind  up  all  its  soft  harmonious  strings 
To  noble,  serious,  melancholy  things. 
And  let  no  human  foot  but  mine  e'er  trace 
The  close  recesses  of  the  sacred  place  : 
Nor  let  a  bird  of  cheerful  note  come  near, 
To  whisper  out  his  airy  raptures  here. 
Only  the  pensive  songstress  of  the  grove  — 
Let  her,  by  mine,  her  mournful  notes  improve  ; 
While  drooping  winds  among  the  branches  sigh. 
And  sluggish  waters  heavily  roll  by. 
Here  to  my  fatal  sorrows  let  me  give 
The  short  remaining  hours  I  have  to  live. 
Then  with  a  sullen,  deep-fetched  groan  expire, 
And  to  the  grave's  dark  solitude  retire. 

Among  Prior's    Poems  will  be   found   "  An  Answer  to  Mrs. 
Singer's  Pastoral  on  Love  and  Friendship." 
16  L 


JANE   BRERETON. 
1685—1740. 

This  clever  writer,  who  was  very  popular  in  her  own  day, 
was  the  daugliter  of  Mr.  Thomas  Hughes,  a  gentleman  of  good 
family,  in  Flintshire,  where  she  was  born  in  1685.  In  1711  she 
married  Mr.  Thomas  Brereton,  of  Oxford  University  ;  with 
whom,  however,  she  lived  so  unhappily,  that  a  separation  took 
place  a  few  years  after  their  union.  In  1721  she  retired  into 
Wales  ;  and  she  died  in  1740. 

It  Avas  the  custom  of  literary  ladies  in  the  seventeenth  century 
to  assume  some  fanciful  name,  and  to  write  under  that  appellation. 
Mrs.  Brereton  signed  herself  "  Melissa,"  and  under  that  mm  de 
guerre  acquired  some  celebrity  in  the  pages  of  the  Gentleman's 
Magazine.  She  particularly  distinguished  herself  in  some  poet- 
ical controversies  which  were  carried  on  in  that  work.  For 
readiness,  tact,  and  good,  strong,  witty  satire  she  has  not  many 
superiors  among  lady-writers. 

Mrs.  Brereton's  productions  are  by  no  means  remarkable  for 
the  delicacy  and  gracefulness  that  usually  distinguish  the  writings 
of  the  female  sex:  on  the  contrary,  there  is  a  roughness,  a 
vigour,  a  breadth  in  them,  which  might  lead  the  reader  to  fancy 
that  the  productions  of  Melissa  proceeded  from  the  pen  of  a  gen- 
tleman, rather  than  from  that  of  a  lady. 

There  is  something  very  charming  in  the  disdain  with  which 
she  addresses  one  of  her  lovers  : 

TO    DAMON. 

Cease,  Damon,  cease,  I  '11  hear  no  more ; 
Your  fulsome  flattery  give  o'er ; 


I  scorn  this  mean  fallacious  art 
By  which  you'd  steal,  not  win,  my  heart: 
In  me  it  never  can  compassion  move, 
And  sooner  will  aversion  raise  than  love. 

If  you  to  love  would  me  incline, 

Assert  the  man,  forbear  to  whine  ; 

Let  time  and  plain  sincerity 

And  faithful  love  your  pleaders  be  ; 

For  trust  me,  Damon,  if  those  fail, 

These  servile  wheedling  tricks  will  ne'er  prevail. 


Poor  Damon  must  have  looked  rather  sheepish,  one  fancies,  at 
such  a  rebuke  as  this  from  his  mistress  ;  and  the  gentleman 
named  below — Philotinus — must  equally  have  felt  that  he  got,  in 
sporting  phrase,  "  decidedly  the  worst  of  it." 


TO    PHILOTIXUS. 

Philotinus  !  if  you  'd  approve 
Yourself  a  faithful  lover,  — 
You  must  no  more  my  anger  move, 
But  in  the  mildest  terms  of  love 
Your  passion  still  discover. 

Though  born  to  rule,  you  must  submit 

To  my  command  with  awe  ; 
Nor  think  your  sex  can  you  acquit. 
For  Cupid's  empire  won't  admit 
Nor  ovun,  a  Salic  Law. 


Mrs.  Brereton's  satire  is  of  an  equally  bold,  strong,  and  sting- 
ing sort.  The  following  lines  have  been  generally,  but  erro- 
neously attributed  to  Lord  Chesterfield  : 


124  JANE   BRERETON. 


ON    BEAU    NASH  S    PICTURE  AT  FULL  LENGTH,  BETWEEN  THE  BUSTS 
OF    SIR    ISAAC    NEWTON    AND    MR.    POPE. 

The  old  Egyptians  hid  their  wit 

In  hieroglyphic  dress, 
To  give  men  pains  to  search  for  it, 

And  please  themselves  with  guess. 

Moderns,  to  tread  the  self-same  path, 

And  exercise  our  parts, 
Place  figures  in  a  room  at  Bath,— 

Forgive  them,  God  of  Arts  ! 

Newton,  if  I  can  judge  aright, 

All  wisdom  doth  express; 
His  knowledge  gives  mankind  new  lignt. 

And  swells  their  happiness. 

Pope  is  the  emblem  of  true  wit, 

The  sunshine  of  the  mind  ; 
Read  o'er  his  works  for  proof  of  it. 

You  '11  endless  pleasure  find. 

Nash  represents  man  in  the  mass, 

Made  up  of  wrong  and  right ; 
Sometimes  a  knave,  sometimes  an  ass, 

Now  blunt,  and  now  polite. 

The  picture,  placed  the  busts  between, 
Adds  to  the  tliought  much  strength; 

Wisdom  and  Wit  are  little  seen. 
But  Folly  's  at  full  length.   ' 


MART   CHANDLER.  125 


MARY    CHANDLER, 

1687—1745, 

Was  the  daughter  of  a  dissentinir-  minister  at  Bath.  Pope  com- 
mended her  poetry.  Sound  sense  and  harmonious  versification 
characterise  her  works. 

TEMPERANCE. 

Fatal  efTects  of  luxury  and  ease  ! 

We  drink  our  poison  and  we  eat  disease  ; 

Indulge  our  senses  at  our  reason's  cost. 

Till  sense  is  pain,  and  reason  hurt  or  lost. 

Not  so,  O  Temperance  bland  !  when  rul'd  by  thee, 

The  brute  's  obedient,  and  the  man  is  free. 

Soft  are  his  slumbers,  balmy  is  his  rest. 

His  veins  not  boiling  from  the  midnight  feast. 

Touch'd  by  Aurora's  rosy  hand,  he  wakes 

Peaceful  and  calm,  and  with  the  world  partakes 

The  joyful  dawnings  of  returning  day, 

For  which  their  grateful  thanks  the  whole  creation  pay;— 

All  but  the  human  brute  :  'tis  he  alone, 

Whose  works  of  darkness  fly  the  rising  sun. 

'Tis  to  thy  rules,  O  Temperance  !  that  we  owe 

All  pleasures,  which  from  liealth  and  strength  can  flow ; 

Vigour  of  body,  purity  of  mind, 

Unclouded  reason,  sentiments  refin'd, 

Unmixt,  untainted  joys  without  remorse, 

The  intemperate  sinner's  never  failing  curse. 

T* 


126  ELIZA   HAYWOOD. 


ELIZA    HAYWOOD, 

1693—1750, 

Was  the  daughter  of  a  London  tradesman,  and  was  born  in  the 
year  1693.  She  wrote  several  books,  chiefly  novels,  one  of 
which,  Betsy  Thoughtless,  is  said  to  have  suggested  Miss 
Burney's  Evelina.     She  died  in  1756. 

EXTRACT  FROM  THE  TEA  TABLE. 

Ximene,  fearing  to  be  forsaken  by  Palcmon,  desires  he  would  kill  her. 

If  by  my  words  my  soul  could  be  exprest. 

You  will  not  wonder  at  my  fond  request : 

But  in  compassion  with  my  wish  partake, 

'Tis  kinder  far  to  kill  than  to  forsake. 

'Tis  not  long  life,  but  glorious  death,  renowns 

The  hero's  honours,  and  the  martyr  crowns  ; 

Laurels  acquired  in  youth,  in  age  decay, 

Or  by  superior  force  are  torn  away. 

To  deck  some  new-made,  hated,  favourite's  brow, 

Who  in  the  noble  ruin  great  does  grow. 

A  happy  end  is  still  the  wise  man's  prayer, 

Death  is  a  safe,  a  sure  retreat  from  care. 

Should  I  live  longer,  I  may  lose  your  love. 

And  all  the  hells  of  desperation  prove. 

But  now  to  die  —  now,  in  my  joy's  high  noon. 

Ere  the  cold  evening  of  contempt  comes  on, 

Were  to  die  blest ;  and  balHe  cruel  fate. 

Which,  envious,  watches  close  to  change  my  state. 

Nay,  more,  to  die /or  theeJ  and  bi/  thee,  too! 

Would  all  my  rival's  happiness  outdo  ; 


ELIZA  HAYWOOD.  127 


My  love  would  live  forever  in  thy  minci, 

And  I  should  pity  those  I  left  behind. 

To  have  those  eyes,  dear  heaven-drest  orbs  of  light, 

Convey  soft  pity  to  expiring  sight, 

That  voice,  whose  every  melting  note  inspires 

Dissolving  languishments,  and  warm  desires, 

Tun'd  to  kind,  mournful,  murmurings  at  my  pain. 

Would  give  a  pride  which  life  could  never  gain  ! 

Haste  then,  the  joys  of  passion  to  refine. 

Let  through  my  breast  thy  glittering  weapon  shine^ 

Dispel  my  fears,  and  keep  me  ever  thine  ! 

Miss  Haywood  was,  for  some  reason  or  other,  included  in 
Pope's  Dunciad  ;  but,  says  a  writer  on  the  subject,  "  it  is  proba- 
ble that  Pope  was  as  much  actuated  by  some  provocation  of  a 
personal  nature,  as  by  indignation  at  the  immorality  of  her  early 
writings,  for  which,  however,  her  later  works  greatly  atoned." 


128  ELIZABETH  TOLLET. 


ELIZABETH  TOLLET, 

1694—1754, 

Was  the  author  of  a  vokime  of  Poems,  and  Susanna,  a  sacred 
drama. 

WINTER    SONG. 

Ask  me  no  more  my  truth  to  prove, 
What  I  would  suffer  for  my  love  ; 
With  thee  I  would  in  exile  go 
To  regions  of  eternal  snow  ; 
O'er  floods  by  solid  ice  confin'd, 
Through  forest  bare,  with  northern  wind  ; 
While  all  around  my  eyes  I  cast, 
Where  all  is  wild,  and  all  is  waste. 
If  there  the  timorous  stag  you  chase, 
Or  rouse  to  fight  a  fiercer  race. 
Undaunted,  I  thy  arms  would  bear, 
And  give  thy  hand  the  hunter's  spear. 
When  the  low  sun  withdraws  his  light. 
And  menaces  an  half-year's  night. 
The  conscious  moon  and  stars  above 
Shall  guide  me  with  my  wandering  love. 
Beneath  the  mountain's  hollow  brow. 
Or  in  its  rocky  cells  below, 
Thy  rural  feast  I  would  provide, 
Nor  envy  palaces  their  pride  ; 
The  softest  moss  should  dress  thy  bed. 
With  savage  spoils  about  thee  spread  ; 
Whilst  faithful  love  the  watch  should  keep. 
To  banish  danger  from  thy  sleep. 


ELIZABETH  TOLLET.  129 


ON    A    death's    head. 

On  this  resemblance,  where  we  find 

A  portrait  drawn  from  all  mankind, 

Fond  lover!  gaze  awhile,  to  see 

What  beauty's  idol  charms  shall  be  ! 

Where  are  the  balls  that  once  could  dart 

Quick  lightning  through  the  wounded  heart? 

The  skin,  whose  tint  could  once  unite 

The  glowing  red  and  polished  white  ? 

The  lip  in  brighter  ruby  drest  ? 

The  cheek  with  dimpled  smiles  opprest? 

The  rising  front,  where  beauty  sate, 

Thron'd  in  her  residence  of  state  ; 

Which,  half  disclos'd,  and  half  conceal'd. 

The  hair  in  flowing  ringlets  veil'd  ? 

'Tis  vanished  all  !  remains  alone 

The  eyeless  scalp  of  naked  bone  ; 

The  vacant  orbits  sunk  within  ; 

The  jaw  that  offers  at  a  grin. 

Is  this  the  object,  then,  that  claims 

The  tribute  of  our  youthful  flames  ? 

Must  amorous  hopes  and  fancied  bliss, 

Too  dear  delusions,  end  in  this  ? 

How  high  does  Melancholy  swell ! 

Which  sighs  can  more  than  language  tell; 

Till  Love  can  only  grieve  or  fear ; 

Reflect  a  while,  then  drop  a  tear 

For  all  that 's  beautiful  or  dear. 


17 


130  •  L^TITIA  PILKINGTON. 


LiETITIA  PILKINGTON. 
1712—1750. 

This  lady,  the  daughter  of  Dr.  Van  Lewen,  of  Dublin,  and 
wife  of  the  Reverend  Mr.  Pilkington,  was  born  in  1712,  and  mani- 
fested her  poetical  genius  at  an  early  age.  She  acquired  much 
fame  by  her  writings,  which,  however,  are  not  quite  so  chaste 
and  moral  as  they  might  be.     She  died  in  1750. 

One  of  the  best  and  purest  of  her  productions  is  the  following 

ODE,    IN    IMITATION    OF   HORACE. 

I  envy  not  the  proud  their  wealth, 

Their  equipage  and  state  ; 
Give  me  but  innocence  and  health, 

I  ask  not  to  be  great. 

I  in  this  sweet  retirement  find 

A  joy  unknown  to  kings  ; 
For  sceptres  to  a  virtuous  mind 

Seem  vain  and  empty  things. 

Great  Cinclnnatus  at  his  plough 

With  brighter  lustre  shone, 
Than  guilty  Caesar  e'er  could  show, 

Though  seated  on  a  throne. 

Tumultuous  days,  and  restless  nights. 

Ambition  ever  knows, 
A  stranger  to  the  calm  delights 

Of  study  and  repose. 


L^TITIA  PILKINGTON.  131 


Then  free  from  envy,  care,  and  strife. 
Keep  me,  ye  powers  divine  ! 

And  pleas'd,  when  ye  demand  my  life, 
May  I  that  life  resign  ! 


Mrs.  Pilkington's  sharp,  clever  style,  is  well  seen  in  the  suc- 
ceeding 

SONG. 

Lying  is  an  occupation 

Us'd  by  all  who  mean  to  rise  ; 
Politicians  owe  their  station 

But  to  well  concerted  lies. 

These  to  lovers  give  assistance 

To  ensnare  the  fair  one's  heart, 
And  the  virgin's  best  resistance 

Yields  to  this  commanding  art. 

Study  this  superior  science. 

Would  you  rise  in  church  or  state. 

Bid  to  truth  a  bold  defiance, 
'Tis  the  practice  of  the  great. 


132  MARY   LEAPOR. 


MARY   LEAPOR, 

1722—1746, 

Was  the  daughter  of  tlie  gardener  of  Judge  Blencowe,  of  Marston 
St.  Lawrence,  in  Northamptonshire ;  and  it  is  said  that  she  was 
herself  in  service.  Her  writings,  of  which  two  volumes  have 
appeared,  display  very  considerable  genius. 

THE    TEMPLE    OF    LOVE A    DREAM. 

When  lonely  night  composed  the  drowsy  mmd. 
And  hush'd  the  bosom  of  the  weary  hind, 
Pleas'd  with  plain  nature,  and  with  simple  life, 
I  read  the  scenes  of  Shore's  deluded  wife. 
Till  my  faint  spirits  sought  the  silent  bed, 
And  on  its  pillow  dropt  my  aching  head ; 
Then  fancy,  ever  to  her  Mira  kind, 
Prepar'd  her  phantoms  for  the  roving  mind. 

Behold  a  fabric  rising  from  the  ground, 
To  the  soft  timbrel  and  the  cittern's  sound ; 
Corinthian  pillars  the  vast  building  hold. 
Of  polished  silver,  and  Peruvian  gold  ; 
In  four  broad  arches  spread  the  sliining  doors, 
The  blazing  roofs  enlighten  all  the  floors : 
Beneath  a  sparkling  canopy,  that  shone 
AVith  Persian  jewels,  like  a  morning  sun, 
Wrapp'd  in  a  robe  of  purest  Tyrian  dye, 
Cytherea's  image  met  the  ravish'd  ej-e  ; 
Whose  glowing  features  would  in  point  beguile, 
So  well  the  artist  drew  her  mimic  smile. 


1 


MARY   LEAPOR.  133 


Her  shining  eyes  confess' d  a  sprightly  joy, 
Upon  her  knees  reclined  her  wanton  boy  ; 
On  the  bright  walls  around  her  and  above, 
AVere  drawn  the  statutes  and  the  arts  of  love  : 
These  taught  the  silent  language  of  the  eye. 
The  broken  whisper,  and  amusing  lie  ; 
The  careless  glance  peculiar  to  the  fair. 
And  vows  of  lovers  that  dissolve  in  air  ; 
The  graceful  anger,  and  the  rolling  eyes, 
The  practis'd  blush,  and  counterfeit  surprise. 
The  language  proper  for  pretending  swains. 
And  fine  description  for  imagin'd  pains  ; 
The  friendly  caution,  and  designing  ease. 
And  all  the  arts  that  ruin  while  they  please. 

Now  enter'd,  follow'd  by  a  splendid  train, 

A  blooming  damsel  and  a  wealthy  swain  ; 

The  gaudy  youth  in  shining  robes  array'd  ; 

Behind  him  follow'd  the  unthinking  maid : 

Youth  in  her  cheek  like  opening  roses  sprung, 

Her  careless  tresses  on  her  shoulders  hung. 

Her  smiles  were  cheerful  as  enlivening  May ; 

Her  dress  was  careless,  and  her  eyes  were  gay. 

Then  to  soft  voices  and  melodious  sound 

The  board  was  spread,  the  sparkling  glasses  crown'd ; 

The  sprightly  virgin  in  a  moment  shines 

In  the  gay  product  of  the  eastern  mines  ; 

Then  Pride  comes  in  with  patches  for  the  fair, 

And  spicy  odours  for  her  curling  hair; 

Rude  Riot,  in  a  crimson  vest  array'd, 

With  smooth-faced  Flattery  like  a  chambermaid  ; 

Soft  Pomp  and  Pleasure  at  her  elbow  stand. 

And  Folly  shakes  the  rattles  in  her  hand. 

But  now  her  feeble  structure  seem'd  to  shake  ; 
Its  bases  trembled,  and  its  pillars  quake  ; 
Then  rush'd  Suspicion  through  the  lofty  gate. 
With  heart-sick  Loathing,  led  by  ghastly  Hate  ; 

M 


134  MARY  LEAPOR. 


And  foaming  Rage,  to  close  the  horrid  band, 
With  a  drawn  poniard  in  her  trembling  hand. 
Now  like  an  earthquake  shook  the  reeling  frame, 
The  lamps  extinguish  in  a  purple  flame  ; 
One  universal  groan  was  heard,  and  then 
The  cries  of  women,  and  the  voice  of  men  : 
Some  roar  out  vengeance,  some  for  mercy  call, 
And  shrieks  and  tumult  fill  the  dreadful  hall ; 

At  length  the  spectres  vanish'd  from  my  sight; 
Again  the  lamps  resum'd  a  feeble  light, 
But  chang'd  the  place  :   no  splendour  there  was  shown. 
But  gloomy  walls,  that  mirth  had  never  known  ; 
For  the  gay  dome  where  pleasure  us'd  to  dwell 
Appear'd  an  abbey,  and  a  doleful  cell; 
And  here  the  sad,  the  ruin'd  nymph  was  found. 
Her  robe  disorder'd  and  her  locks  unbound ; 
While  from  her  eyes  the  pearly  drops  of  woe 
Wash'd  her  pale  cheek,  where  roses  us'd  to  blow : 
Her  blue  and  trembling  lips  prepar'd  to  breathe 
The  sighs  that  made  her  swelling  bosom  heave  ; 
Thus,  stupid  with  her  grief,  she  sat  and  prest 
Her  lily  hands  across  her  pensive  breast : 
A  group  of  ghastly  phantoms  stood  behind. 
Whose  task  it  is  to  rack  the  guilty  mind ; 
Widc-mouth'd  Reproach  with  visage  rude  and  thin. 
And  hissing  Scandal,  made  a  hideous  din  ; 
Remorse,  that  darted  from  her  deadly  wings 
Invenom'd  arrows  and  a  thousand  stings  ; 
Then  with  pale  cheeks,  and  with  a  ghastly  stare, 
Peop'd  o'er  her  shoulder  hollow-eyed  Despair, 
Whose  hand  extended  bore  a  bleeding  heart. 
And  Death  behind  her  shook  his  threatening  dart : 
These  forms  with  horror  fill'd  my  aching  breast. 
And  from  my  eyelids  drove  tlie  balm  of  rest: 
I  woke,  and  found  old  night  her  course  had  run. 
And  left  her  empire  to  the  rising  sun. 


HENRIETTA,  LADY   LUXBOROUGH, 

1756, 

Was  half  sister  to  the  famous  Lord  Bolingbroke.  In  Dodsley's 
Collection,  some  pieces  of  poetry,  ascribed  to  a  Lady  of  Quality, 
proceeded  from  her  pen ;  one  of  them  is  given  here.  A  volume 
of  her  Letters  to  Shenstone  was  printed  in  1775.  She  died  in 
1756. 

THE    BULLFINCH    IN    TOWN. 

Hark  to  the  blackbird's  pleasing  note. 

Sweet  usher  of  the  vocal  throng  ! 
Nature  directs  his  Avarbling  throat. 

And  all  that  hear,  admire  the  song. 

Yon  bullfinch,  with  unvaried  tone. 

Of  cadence  liarsh,  and  accent  shrill, 
Has  brighter  plumage  to  atone 

For  want  of  harmony  and  skill. 

Yet   discontent  with  nature's  boon, 

Like  man,  to  mimic  art  he  flies  ; 
On  Opera-pinions  hoping  soon 

Unrivall'd  he  shall  mount  the  skies. 

And  while  to  please  some  courtly  fair. 

He  one  dull  tune  with  labour  learns, 
A  well-gilt  cage  remote  from  air 

And  faded  plumes,  is  all  he  earns  ! 


136 


HENRIETTA,   LADY    LUXBOROUGH. 


Go,  hapless  captive  !  still  repeat 

The  sounds  which  nature  never  taught; 

Go,  listening  fair !  and  call  them  sweet, 
Because  you  know  them  dearly  bought. 


Unenvied  both  !  go  hear  and  sing 
Your  studied  music  o'er  and  o'er  ; 

AVhilst  I  attend  th'  inviting  spring, 
In  fields  where  birds  unl'ctter'd  soar. 


MRS.   PENNINGTON.  137 


MRS.  PENNINGTON, 

1734—1759, 

Was  the  author  of  a  poem  called  The  Copper  Farthing,  an  imi- 
tation of  The  Splendid  Shilling,  and  some  miscellaneous  verses, 
one  of  which  productions  is  subjoined.  She  died  in  1759,  aged  25. 

ODE    TO    MORNING. 

Hail,  roseate  Morn  !  returning  light ! 
To  thee  the  sable  queen  of  night 

Reluctant  yields  her  sway  ; 
And,  as  she  quits  the  dappled  skies, 
On  glories  greater  glories  rise, 

To  greet  the  dawning  day. 

O'er  tufted  meads  gay  Flora  trips  ; 
Arabia's  spices  scent  her  lips, 

Her  head  with  rose-buds  crown'd  ; 
Mild  Zephyr  hastes  to  snatch  a  kiss, 
And,  fluttering  with  the  transient  bliss. 

Wafts  fragrance  all  around. 

The  dew-drops,  daughters  of  the  Morn, 
With  spangles  every  bush  adorn, 

And  all  the  broider'd  vales  ; 
Their  voice  to  thee  the  linnets  raise. 
The  lark,  soft  trilling  in  thy  praise, 

Aurora,  rising,  hails ! 
18  H* 


138  MRS.    PENNINGTON. 


While  nature,  now  in  lively  vest 
Of  glory  green,  has  gaily  drest 

Each  tributary  plain ; 
While  blooming  flowers,  and  blossom'd  trees, 
Soft  waving  with  the  vernal  breeze, 

Exult  beneath  thy  reign  ; 

Shall  I  with  drowsy  poppies  crown'd 
By  sleep  in  silken  fetters  bound. 

The  downy  god  obey  1 
Ah  no  !   through  yon  embowering  grove. 
Or  winding  valley  let  me  rove, 

And  own  thy  cheerful  sway  ! 

For  short-lived  are  thy  pleasing  powers: 
Pass  but  a  few  uncertain  hours, 

And  we  no  more  shall  trace 
Thy  dimpled  cheek,  and  brow  serene  ; 
Or  clouds  may  gloom  the  smiling  scene, 

And  frowns  deform  thy  face. 

So  in  life's  youthful  bloomy  prime, 
AVe  sport  away  the  fleeting  time. 

Regardless  of  our  fate  ; 
But  by  some  unexpected  bloAv 
Our  giddy  follies  we  shall  know. 

And  mourn  them  when  too  late  ! 


MARY   MASTERS.  139 


MARY  MASTERS, 
1750, 


Published  poems,  which,  as  Boswell  informs  us,  were  corrected 
by  Dr.  Johnson.    I  extract  as  a  specimen  the  subjoined  verses. 

TO    LUCINDA. 

Lucinda,  you  in  vain  dissuade 

Two  hearts  from  mutual  love  ; 
What  amorous  youth,  or  tender  maid, 

Could  e'er  their  flames  remove? 

What  if  the  charms  in  him  I  see 

Only  exist  in  thought ; 
Yet  Cupid,  like  the  Mede's  decree. 

Is  firm,  and  changeth  not. 

Seek  not  to  know  my  passion's  spring, 

The  reason  to  discover  ; 
For  reason  is  an  useless  thing. 

When  we've  commenc'd  the  lover. 

Should  lovers  quarrel  with  their  fate, 

And  ask  the  reason  why 
They  are  condemn'd  to  dote  on  that, 

Or  for  this  object  die  ? 

They  must  not  hope  for  a  reply. 

And  this  is  all  they  know  ; 
They  sigh,  and  weep,  and  rave,  and  die. 

Because  it  must  be  so. 


140  MARY   MASTERS. 


Love  is  a  mighty  god,  you  know, 
That  rules  with  potent  sway  ; 

And  when  he  draws  his  awful  bow, 
We  mortals  must  obey. 

Since  you  the  fatal  strife  endur'd, 

And  yielded  to  his  dart; 
How  can  I  hope  to  be  secur'd, 

And  guard  a  weaker  heart  ? 


MRS.   MAD  AN.  141 


MRS.  MADAN. 
About  1750. 
One  of  the  Cowper  family,  and  the  wife  of  Colonel  Madan. 

VERSES 

Written  in  her  brother's  Coke  upon  Littleton.  , 

O  thou,  who  labour' St  in  this  rugged  mine, 
Mayst  thou  to  gold  th'  unpolish'd  ore  refine  ! 
May  each  dark  page  unfold  its  haggard  brow  ! 
Doubt  not  to  reap,  if  thou  canst  bear  to  plough. 
To  tempt  thy  care,  may,  each  revolving  night, 
Purses  and  maces  swim  before  thy  sight ! 
From  hence  in  times  to  come,  adventurous  deed ! 
Mayst  thou  essay  to  look  and  speak  like  Mead ! 
When  the  black  bag  and  rose  no  more  shall  shade 
With  martial  air  the  honours  of  thy  head  ; 
When  the  full  wig  thy  visage  shall  enclose, 
And  only  leave  to  view  thy  learned  nose  ; 
Safely  mayst  thou  defy  beaux,  wits,  and  scoffers, 
While  tenants,  in  fee  simple,  stuff  thy  coffers  ! 

Our  author's  brother  appears  to  have  followed  this  advice  very 
closely,  for  he  became  Lord  Chancellor  of  England. 


142  LADY  ANNE   IRWIN. 


LADY   ANNE    IRWIN. 

Anne  Howaud,  whose  father  was  Earl  of  Carlisle,  was  twice 
married.  Her  husbands  were  Viscount  Irwin  and  Colonel  Doug- 
lass. She  is  chiefly  celebrated  as  a  poet  for  the  defence  of  her 
sex  against  Pope's  "  Characters  of  Women,''  which  Duncombe 
says  "  entitles  her  to  a  grateful  tribute  from  all  female  hands." — 
Died,  1760. 


By  custom  doomed  to  folly,  sloth  and  ease, 
No  wonder  Pope  such  female  triflers  sees ; 
Nor  would  the  satirist  confess  the  truth. 
Nothing  so  like  as  male  and  female  youth ; 
Nothing  so  like  as  man  and  woman  old,   . 
Their  joys,  their  woes,  their  hates,  if  truly  told  ; 
Though  different  acts  seem  different  sexes'  growth, 
'T  is  the  same  principle  impels  them  both. 

—  View  daring  man,  strong  with  ambition's  fire  ; 
The  conq'ring  hero  or  the  youthful  squire, 

By  different  deeds  aspire  to  deathless  fame. 
One  numbers  man,  the  other  numbers  game. 

—  View  a  fair  nymph,  blessed  with  superior  charms, 
Whose  tempting  form  the  coldest  bosom  warms  ; 
No  eastern  monarch  more  despotic  reigns 

Than  this  fair  tyrant  of  the  Cyprian  plains. 
Whether  a  crown  or  bauble  we  desire, 
Whether  to  learning  or  to  dress  aspire, 
Whether  we  wait  with  joy  the  trumpet's  call. 
Or  wish  to  shine  the  fairest  at  a  ball ; 
In  either  sex  the  appetite  's  the  same. 
For  love  of  power  is  still  the  love  of  fame. 


LADY   ANNE  IRWIN.  143 


—  Woman  must  in  a  narrow  orbit  move, 

But  power  alike  both  males  and  females  love. 

What  makes  the  difference  then,  you  may  inquire, 

Between  the  hero  and  the  rural  squire  ? 

Between  the  maid  bred  up  with  courtly  care, 

Or  she  who  earns  by  toil  her  daily  fare  ? 

Their  power  is  stinted,  but  not  so  their  will, 

Ambitious  thoughts  the  humblest  cottage  fill; 

For  as  they  can  they  push  their  little  fame, 

And  try  to  leave  behind  a  deathless  name. 

In  education  all  the  difference  lies ; 

Woman,  if  taught,  would  be  as  learned  and  wise 

As  haughty  man,  inspired  by  arts  and  rules ; 

Where  God  makes  one,  nature  makes  many  fools ; 

And  though  nugatixes  are  daily  found. 

Flattering  nugators  equally  abound. 

Such  heads  are  toy-shops  filled  with  trifling  ware, 

And  can  each  folly  with  each  female  share. 

A  female  mind  like  a  rude  fallow  lies. 

No  seeds  are  sown,  but  weeds  spontaneous  rise. 

As  well  m.ight  we  expect  in  winter  spring. 

As  land  untilled  a  fruitful  crop  should  bring. 

As  well  we  might  expect  Peruvian  ore 

We  should  possess,  yet  dig  not  for  the  store. 

Culture  improves  all  fruits,  all  sorts  we  find, 

Wit,  judgment,  sense,  fruits  of  the  human  mind. 

Can  female  youth,  left  to  weak  woman's  care, 

Misled  by  custom.  Folly's  fruitful  heir  ; 

Told  that  their  charms  a  monarch  may  enslave  ; 

That  beauty,  like  the  gods,  can  kill  or  save  ; 

Taught  the  arcana,  the  mysterious  arts. 

By  ambush,  dress  to  catch  unwary  hearts  ; 

Or,  wealthy  born,  taught  to  lisp  French  or  dance. 

Their  morals  left,  Lucretius-like,  to  chance  ; 

Unused  to  books,  nor  virtue  taught  to  prize, 

AVhose  mind  a  savage  waste,  unpeopled  lies. 

Which  to  supply,  trifles  fill  up  tlie  void. 

And  idly  busy  to  no  end  employed  ; 


144  LADY   ANXE    IRWIX. 


Can  these  resist,  when  soothing  pleasure  woos  ? 
Preserve  their  virtue,  Avhen  their  fame  they  lose  ? 
Can  they  on  other  themes  converse  or  write. 
Than  what  they  hear  all  day,  or  dream  all  night  ? 


LADY  MARY  WORTLEY  MONTAGU.        145 


LADY  MARY  WORTLEY  MONTAGU. 

1690—1762. 

The  celebrated  daughter  of  the  Duke  of  Kingston.  She  was 
born  in  1690.  Her  fame  chiefly  rests  upon  her  Letters.  Her 
poetry  is  of  rather  a  coarse,  masculine,  sensuous  order,  and  is 
quite  destitute  of  imagination.  It  has,  however,  some  good  sen- 
sible touches  that  go  far  to  redeem  it  from  the  charge  of  mediocrity. 
She  died  in  1762. 

THE    lady's    resolve. 

Whilst  thirst  of  praise  and  vain  desire  of  fame 

In  every  age  is  every  woman's  aim  ; 

With  courtship  pleas'd,  of  silly  toasters  pioud, 

Fond  of  a  train,  and  happy  in  a  crowd ; 

On  each  proud  fop  bestowing  some  kind  glance, 

Each  conquest  owing  to  some  loose  advance  : 

While  vain  coquettes  afl'ect  to  be  pursued. 

And  think  they  're  virtuous  if  not  grossly  lewd: 

Let  this  great  maxim  be  my  virtue's  guide ; 

In  part  she  is  to  blame  that  has  been  tried : 

He  comes  too  near  that  comes  to  be  denied. 


HYMN    TO    THE    MOON. 


Thou  silver  deity  of  secret  night, 

Direct  my  footsteps  through  the  woodland  shade  ; 
Thou  conscious  witness  of  unknown  delight. 

The  lover's  guardian,  and  the  muse's  aid ! 
19  N 


146  LADY   MARY   WORTLEY   IMONTAGU. 

By  thy  pale  beams  I  solitary  rove, 
To  thee  my  tender  grief  confide, 

Serenely  sweet  you  gild  the  silent  grove, 
My  friend,  my  goddess,  and  my  guide  ! 

Even  thee,  fair  queen,  from  thy  amazing  height, 
The  charms  of  young  Endymion  drew  ; 

Veil'd  with  the  mantle  of  concealing  night ; 
With  all  thy  greatness,  and  thy  coldness,  too. 


ADVICE. 

Good  madam,  when  ladies  are  willing, 
A  man  must  needs  look  like  a  fool ; 

For  me  I  would  not  give  a  shilling 
For  one  who  would  love  out  of  rule. 

You  should  leave  us  to  guess  by  your  blushing, 
And  not  speak  the  matter  so  plain ; 

'T  is  ours  to  write  and  be  pushing, 
'Tis  yours  to  affect  a  disdain. 

That  you  are  in  a  terrible  taking. 

By  all  these  sweet  oglings  I  see  ; 
But  the  fruit  that  can  fall  without  shaking 

Indeed  is  too  mellow  for  me. 


AN    ANSWER    TO    A    LADY    WHO    ADVISED   LADY    >I.    TO    RETIRE. 

You  little  know  the  heart  that  you  advise ; 
I  view  this  various  scene  with  equal  eyes  ; 
In  crowded  court  I  find  myself  alone, 
And  pay  my  worship  to  a  nobler  throne. 


LADY  MARY  WORTLEY  MONTAGU.        147 


Long  since  the  value  of  this  world  I  knew ; 
Pitied  the  folly  and  despised  the  shew : 
Well  as  I  can,  my  tedious  part  I  bear, 
And  wait  dismissal  without  pain  or  fear. 

Seldom  I  mark  mankind's  detested  ways, 
Not  hearing  censure,  nor  affecting  praise  ; 
And  unconcern'd,  my  future  fate  I  trust 
To  that  sole  Being  merciful  and  just. 


us  FRANCES   SHERIDAN. 


FRANCES  SHERIDAN, 

1724—1776, 

The  mother  of  Richard  Brinsley  Sheridan,  was  born  in  1724, 
Her  maiden  name  was  Cha'uberlaine.  She  is  chiefly  known  by 
her  novels  of  Sidney  Biddulph  and  Nourjahad.  She  died  in 
1767. 

ODE    TO    PATIENCE. 

Unaw'd  by  threats,  unmov'd  by  force, 
My  steady  soul  pursues  her  course, 

Collected,  calm,  resign'd ; 
Say,  you  who  search  with  curious  eyes 
The  source  whence  human  actions  rise, 

Say,  whence  this  turn  of  mind  ? 

'T  is  Patience  !  lenient  goddess,  hail ! 
O  let  thy  votary's  vows  prevail, 

Thy  threaten'd  flight  to  stay  ; 
Long  hast  thou  been  a  welcome  guest, 
Long  reign'd  an  inmate  in  this  breast, 

And  rul'd  with  gentle  sway. 

Through  all  the  various  turns  of  fate, 
Ordain'd  me  in  each  several  state, 

My  wayward  lot  has  known  ; 
What  taught  me  silently  to  bear. 
To  curb  the  sigh,  to  check  the  tear, 

When  sorrow  weijjli'd  me  down  ? 


FRANCES  SHERIDAN.  143 


'T  was  Patience  !  temperate  goddess,  stay ! 
For  still  thy  dictates  I  obey, 

Nor  yield  to  passion's  power  ; 
Though  by  injurious  foes  borne  down. 
My  fame,  my  toil,  my  hopes  o'ertluown, 

In  one  ill-fated  hour. 

When  robb'd  of  what  I  held  most  dear, 
My  hands  adorn'd  the  mournful  bier 

Of  her  I  lov'd  so  well ; 
What,  when  mute  sorrow  chain'd  my  tongue, 
As  o'er  the  sable  hearse  I  hung 

Forbade  the  tide  to  swell  ? 

'T  was  Patience  !  goddess  ever  calm  ! 
0  pour  into  my  breast  thy  balm, 

That  antidote  to  pain  ; 
Which  flowing  from  thy  nectar'd  urn, 
By  chemistry  divine  can  turn 

Our  losses  into  gain. 

When  sick  and  languishing  in  bed. 
Sleep  from  my  restless  couch  had  fled, 

(Sleep  which  e'en  pain  beguiles,) 
What  taught  me  calmly  to  sustain 
A  feverish  being,  rack'd  with  pain. 

And  dress'd  my  looks  in  smiles  ? 

'T  was  Patience  !  Heaven-descended  maid 
Implored,  flew  swiftly  to  my  aid. 

And  lent  her  fostering  breast ; 
Watch'd  my  sad  hours  with  parent  care, 
Repell'd  the  approaches  of  despair. 
And  sooth'd  my  soul  to  rest. 

Say,  when  dissevered  from  his  side. 
My  friend,  protector,  and  my  guide  — 
When  ray  prophetic  soul, 

N* 


150  FRANCES   SHERIDAN. 


Anticipating  all  the  storm, 
Saw  danger  in  its  direst  form, 
What  could  my  fears  control  ? 

'T  was  Patience  !  gentle  goddess,  hear  ! 
Be  ever  to  thy  suppliant  near, 

Nor  let  one  murmur  rise  ; 
Since  still  some  mighty  joys  are  given. 
Dear  to  her  soul,  the  gifts  of  heaven, 

The  sweet  domestic  ties. 


MARY  JONES.  151 


MARY  JONES. 
1750. 

"  Miss  Jones  lived  at  Oxford,  and  was  often  of  our  parties.  She 
was  a  very  ingenious  poetess,  and  published  a  volume  of  poems  ; 
and,  on  the  whole,  was  a  most  sensible,  agreeable,  and  amiable 
woman.  She  was  a  sister  to  the  Reverend  River  Jones,  chanter 
of  Christ-church  Cathedi:al  at  Oxford,  and  Johnson  used  to  call 
her  The  Chantress.  I  have  heard  him  often  address  her  in  this 
passage  from  Jl  Penseroso,  '  Thee,  chantress  of  the  woods  among, 
I  woo,'  &c.  Note  on  a  letter  from  Johnson  to  T.  Warton,  in 
1757." — BosiveWs  Life  of  Johnson,  vol.  i. 

In  the  preface  to  her  volume.  Miss  Jones  calls  her  poems  "the 
produce  of  pure  nature  only,  and  most  of  them  wrote  at  a  very 
early  age."  Our  author  seems  to  have  enjoyed  considerable  cele- 
brity, for  the  names  of  a  vast  number  of  subscribers  appear  pre- 
fixed to  the  work  alluded  to, — Miscellanies  in  Prose  and  Verse, 
1750. 

I  subjoin  two  specimens  of  Miss  Jones's  powers ;  by  which  it 
will  be  seen  that  she  excelled  in  lively  strains,  and  possessed  a 
quaint  and  humorous  genius. 

I.    EXTRACT    FROM    AN    EPISTLE    TO    LADY    BOWYER. 

How  much  of  paper's  spoil'd  !  what  floods  of  ink  ! 
And  yet  how  few,  how  very  few,  can  think  ! 
The  knack  of  writing  is  an  easy  trade  ; 
But  to  think  well  requires  —  at  least  a  head. 
Once  in  an  age  one  genius  may  arise, 
With  wit  well  cultured,  and  with  learning  wise : 
Like  some  tall  oak,  behold  his  branches  shoot, 
No  tender  scions  springing  from  the  root. 


152  MARY  JONES. 


Whilst  lofty  Pope  erects  his  laurell'd  head, 
No  lays  like  mine  can  live  beneath  his  shade : 
Nothing  but  weeds,  and  moss,  and  herbs,  are  found  :  — 
Cut,  cut  them  down ;  why  cumber  they  the  ground  ? 

And  yet  you  'd  have  me  write  ?  —  For  what  ?   To  whom  ? 

To  curl  a  favourite  in  a  dressing-room  ? 

To  mend  a  candle  when  the  snuff  's  too  short  ? 

Or  save  rappee  for  chambermaids  at  court? 

Glorious  ambition!  —  noble  thirst  of  fame! 

No  !  but  you  'd  have  me  write  —  to  get  a  name  ! 

Alas  !  I  'd  live  unknown,  unenvy'd  too  ; 

'T  is  more  than  Pope  with  all  his  wit  can  do. 

'T  is  more  than  you  with  wit  and  beauty  join'd, 

A  pleasing  form,  and  a  discerning  mind. 

The  world  and  I  are  no  such  cordial  friends : 

I  have  my  purpose,  tliey  their  various  ends. 

I  say  my  prayers,  and  lead  a  sober  life, 

Nor  laugh  at  Cornus,  or  at  Cornus'  wife. 

What 's  fame  to  me,  who  pray  and  pay  my  rent? 

If  my  friends  know  me  honest,  I  'm  content. 


II.       TO    STELLA,    AFTER    THE    SMALL-POX. 

When  skilful  traders  first  set  up, 
To  draw  tlie  people  to  their  shop, 
They  straight  hang  out  some  gaudy  sign, 
Expressive  of  the  goods  within. 
The  Vintner  has  his  boy  and  grapes, 
The  Haberdasher  thread  and  tapes. 
The  Shoemaker  exposes  boots. 
And  Monmouth  Street  old  tatter'd  suits. 

So  fares  it  with  the  nymph  divine  ; 
For  what  is  beauty  but  a  sign  ? 


MARY   JONES.  153 


A  face  hung  out,  through  which  is  seen 
The  nature  of  the  goods  within. 
Thus  the  coquette  her  beau  ensnares 
With  studied  smile  and  forward  airs  ; 
The  graver  prude  hangs  out  a  frown 
To  strike  the  audacious  gazer  down  ; 
But  she  alone  whose  temperate  wit 
Each  nicer  medium  can  hit, 
Is  still  adorn'd  with  every  grace, 
And  Avears  a  sample  in  her  face. 

What  though  some  envious  folks  have  said 
That  Stella  now  must  hide  her  head, 
That  all  her  stock  of  beauty  's  gone, 
And  e'en  the  very  sign  took  down  ; 
Yet  grieve  not  at  the  fatal  blow. 
For  if  you  break  awhile,  we  know 
'T  is  bankrupt  like,  more  rich  to  grow. 
A  fairer  sign  you  '11  soon  hang  up, 
And  with  fresh  credit  open  shop ; 
For  nature's  pencil  soon  shall  trace, 
And  once  more  finish  off  your  face : 
Which  all  your  neighbours  shall  outshine, 
And  of  your  Mind  remain  the  sign  ! 


154  MRS.  ANNE  STEELE. 


MRS.   ANNE    STEELE. 

Mrs.  Steele  was  the  daughter  of  a  Baptist  clerg-yman,  and 
was  born  in  Hampshire.  She  may  be  said  to  claim  a  place  by 
the  side  of  Dr.  Watts  as  a  writer  of  sacred  songs.    Died,  1779. 


TO    MY    WATCH. 

Little  monitor,  by  thee 
Let  me  learn  what  I  should  be ; 
Learn  the  round  of  life  to  fill, 
Useful  and  progressive  still. 
Thou  canst  gentle  hints  impart    • 
How  to  regulate  the  heart ; 
When  I  wind  thee  up  at  night, 
Mark  each  fault  and  set  thee  right, 
Let  me  search  my  bosom  too. 
And  my  daily  thoughts  review  ; 
Mark  the  movements  of  my  mind. 
Nor  be  easy  till  I  find 
Latent  errors  brought  to  view. 
Till  all  be  regular  and  true. 


FRANCES  BROOKE.  155 


FRANCES  BROOKE, 
1745—1789, 

Was  the  daughter  of  a  clergyman  named  Moore,  residing  in  De- 
vonshire, and  wife  of  the  Reverend  J.  Brooke.  She  was  born 
in  1745,  and  died  in  1789.  Mrs.  Brooke  was  the  author  of  the 
operettas  entitled  Bosina  and  Marian  ;  both  of  which  are  very 
elegant  and  pleasing  productions.  Besides  these  she  wrote  some 
novels,  plays,  and  poems,  which  are  now  forgotten. 

Mrs.  Brooke's  verses  have  a  spirit,  a  clear,  sparkling,  livmg 
style,  which  is  very  delightful.  The  following  song  from  M^trian 
sounds  like  the  shout  of  a  clear  merry  voice  ringing  in  the  open 
morning  air. 

To  the  chase,  to  the  chase  !  on  the  brow  of  the  hill 
Let  the  hounds  meet  the  sweet-breathing  morn  ; 
Whilst  full  to  the  welkin,  their  notes  clear  and  shrill. 
Join  the  sound  of  the  heart-cheering  horn. 
What  music  celestial !  when  urging  the  race 
Sweet  Echo  repeats  —  "  To  the  chase,  to  tlie  chase 


I" 


Our  pleasure  transports  us,  how  gay  flies  the  hour ! 

Sweet  health  and  quick  spirits  attend  ; 
Not  sweeter  when  evening  convenes  to  the  bower. 
And  we  meet  the  loved  smile  of  a  friend. 
See  the  stag  just  before  us  !     He  starts  at  the  cry  :  — 
He  stops-his  strength  fails— speak,  my  friends— must  he  die? 

His  innocent  aspect  while  standing  at  bay, 

His  expression  of  anguish  and  pain. 
All  plead  for  compassion,— your  looks  seem  to  say 
Let  him  bound  o'er  his  forests  again. 
Quick,  release  him  to  dart  o'er  the  neighbouring  plain, 
Let  him  live,  let  him  bound  o'er  his  forests  again! 


156  FRANCES   BROOKE. 


This  last  stanza  is  "  pure  womanly."  No  male  writer  would 
have  let  the  stag  loose  again,  or  even  have  debated  about  his 
death.  The  conception  is  in  my  idea  most  beautifully  feminine, 
and  embodies  one  of  the  most  exquisite  touches  of  pity  I  know  of. 

The  following  little  song,  too,  from  the  same  opera,  has  some- 
thing very  plaintive  in  it. 

By  the  osiers  so  dank, 

As  we  sat  on  the  bank, 
Andlook'd  at  the  swell  of  the  biUow, 

This  chaplet  lie  wove 

As  a  token  of  love ; 
Alas  !  't  was  the  branch  of  the  willow. 

How  sad  all  the  day 

Through  the  meadows  I  stray, 
And  rest  flies  at  night  from  my  pillow ! 

The  garland  I  wore 

From  my  ringlets  I  tore, 
Alas !  must  I  wear  the  green  willow  2 

Here  is  another  little  sparkling  piece  ;  extracted  from  Rosina, 

Her  mouth,  which  a  smile 
Devoid  of  all  guile 

Half  opens  to  view, 
Is  the  bud  of  the  rose 
In  the  morning  that  blows, 

Impearl'd  with  the  dew. 

More  fragrant  her  breath 
Than  the  flow'r-scented  heath 

At  the  dawning  of  day  ; 
The  hawthorn  in  bloom. 
The  lily's  perfume, 

Or  the  blossoms  of  May. 


FRANCES  BROOKE.  157 


Her   Ode  to  Health,  too,  is  a   very  graceful  and  harmonious 
composition. 

ODE    TO    HEALTH. 

The  Lesbian  lute  no  more  can  charm, 
Nor  my  once  panting  bosom  warm  ; 

No  more  I  breathe  the  tender  sigh  ; 
Nor  when  my  beauteous  swain  appears 
With  downcast  look  and  starting  tears, 

Confess  the  lustre  of  his  eye. 

With  Freedom  blest,  at  early  dawn, 
I  wander  o'er  the  verdant  lawn, 

And  hail  the  sweet  returning  Spring  ; 
The  fragrant  breeze,  the  feather'd  choir 
To  raise  my  vernal  joys  conspire. 

While  Peace  and  Health  their  treasures  bring. 

Come,  lovely  Health  !  divinest  maid  ! 
And  lead  me  through  the  rural  shade, 

To  thee  the  rural  sliades  belong : 
T  is  thine  to  bless  the  simple  swain. 
And,  while  he  tries  the  tuneful  strain. 

To  raise  the  raptur'd  poet's  song. 

Behold  the  patient  village  hind  ! 
No  cares  disturb  his  tranquil  mind  ; 

By  thee,  and  sweet  Contentment  blest. 
All  day  he  turns  the  stubborn  plain. 
And  meets  at  eve  his  infant  train. 

While  guiltless  pleasure  fills  his  breast. 

O  ever  good  and  bounteous  !  still 
By  fountain  fresh,  or  murmuring  rill, 

Let  me  thy  blissful  presence  find  ! 
Thee,  Goddess  !  tliee  my  steps  pursue, 
When,  careless  of  the  morning  dew, 

I  leave  the  lessening  vales  behind. 
o 


158  MRS.   GREVILLE. 


MRS.    GREVILLE. 

Of  this  lady,  whose  Prayer  for  Indifference  has  been  so 
much  admired,  I  can  give  no  account. 

PRAYER    FOR    INDIFFERENCE. 

Oft  I  've  implor'd  the  gods  in  vain. 

And  pray'd  till  I  've  been  weary; 
For  once  I  '11  seek  my  wish  to  gain 

Of  Oberon,  the  Fairy. 

Sweet  airy  being,  wanton  sprite, 

Who  lurk'st  in  woods  unseen. 
And  oft  by  Cynthia's  silver  light, 

Trip'st  gaily  o'er  the  green : 

If  e'er  thy  pitying  heart  was  mov'd. 

As  ancient  stories  tell, 
And  for  the  Athenian  maid  *  who  lov'd, 

Thou    sought'st   a   wondrous  spell ; 

0  deign  once  more  t'  exert  thy  power ! 
Haply  some  herb  or  tree, 

Sovereign  as  juice  of  western  flow^er. 
Conceals  a  balm  for  me. 

1  ask  no  kind  return  of  love, 
No  tempting  cliarm  to  please  ; 

Far  from  the  heart  those  gifts  remove, 
That  sighs  for  peace  and  ease ; 

•  See  ''Midsummer  Nights  Dream." 


MRS.   GREVILLE.  159 


Nor  peace,  nor  ease,  the  heart  can  know, 

That,  like  the  needle  true. 
Turns  at  the  touch  of  joy  or  woe, 

But,  turning,  trembles  too. 

Far  as  distress  the  soul  can  wound, 

'T  is  pain  in  each  degree  ; 
'T  is  bliss  but  to  a  certain  bound, 

Beyond,  is  agony. 

Then  take  this  treacherous  sense  of  mine, 
Which  dooms  me  still  to  smart ; 

Which  pleasure  can  to  pain  refine, 
To  pain  new  pangs  impart. 

0  haste  to  shed  the  sovereign  balm, 
My  shatter'd  nerves  new  string; 

And  for  my  guest,  serenely  calm. 
The  nymph  Indifference  bring  ! 

At  her  approach,  see  Hope,  see  Fear, 

See  Expectation  fly  ! 
And  Disappointment  in  the  rear, 

That  blasts  the  promis'd  joy! 

The  tear  which  Pity  taught  to  flow 

The  eye  shall  then  disown  ; 
The  heart  that  melts  for  others'  woe 

Shall  then  scarce  feel  its  own. 

The  wounds  which  now  each  moment  bleed, 

Each  moment  then  shall  close  ; 
And  tranquil  days  shall  still  succeed 

To  nights  of  calm  repose. 

O  Fairy  Elf!  but  grant  me  this, 

This  one  kind  comfort  send. 
And  so  may  never-fading  bliss 

Thy  flowery  paths  attend  ! 


So  may  the  glow-worm's  glimmering  light 

Thy  tiny  footsteps  lead 
To  some  new  region  of  delight, 

Unknown  to  mortal  tread  ! 

And  be  thy  acorn  goblet  filled 

With  heaven's  ambrosial  dew, 
From  sweetest,  freshest  flowers  distill'd, 

That  shed  fresh  sweets  for  you  ! 

And  what  of  life  remains  for  me 

I  '11  pass  in  sober  ease ; 
Half  pleased,  contented  will  I  be, 

Content  but  half  to  please. 

For  the  answer  to  this  Poem,  by  the  Countess  of  Carlisle,  see 
page  218. 


CONSTANTIA  GRIERSON, 

1706—1733, 

Was  an  Irish  poetess,  of  extraordinary  erudition.  She  was  born 
in  1706.  "  She  died,"  says  Mrs.  Mary  Barber  (with  whose 
poems  her  own  were  pubUshed),  "  at  the  age  of  27,  and  was 
allowed,  long  before,  to  be  an  excellent  scholar,  not  only  in  Greek 
and  Roman  literature,  but  in  history,  divinity,  philosophy,  and 
mathematics.  She  gave  a  proof  of  her  knowledge  in  the  Latin 
tongue,  by  her  dedication  of  the  Dublin  edition  of  Tacitus  to  the 
Lord  Carteret,  and  by  that  of  Terence  to  his  son,  to  whom  she 
likewise  wrote  a  Greek  epigram."  Mrs.  Pilkington  informs  us 
that  she  was  also  mistress  of  Hebrew ;  that  her  parents  were 
poor,  illiterate  country  people ;  and  that  when  questioned  how 
she  had  acquired  such  learning,  she  said  "  she  had  received  som 
little  instruction  from  the  minister  of  the  parish,  when  she  could 
spare  time  from  her  needle-work,  to  which  she  was  closely  kept 
by  her  mother." 

The  following  lines    are    addressed    To   Miss   Lsetitia    Van 
Lewen  (afterwards  Mrs.  Pilkington)  at  a  Country  Jissize. 

The  fleeting  birds  may  soon  in  ocean  swim, 
And  northern  whales  through  liquid  azure  skim  ; 
The  Dublin  ladies  their  intrigues  forsake, 
To  dress  and  scandal  an  aversion  take ; 
When  you  can  in  the  lonely  forest  walk. 
And  with  some  serious  matron  gravely  talk 
Of  possets,  poultices,  and  waters  'still'd. 
And  monstrous  casks  with  mead  and  cider  fiU'd ; 
How  many  hives  of  bees  she  has  in  store, 
And  how  much  fruit  her  trees  this  summer  bore  ; 
Or,  home  returning,  in  the  yard  can  stand. 
And  feed  the  chickens  from  your  bounteous  hand : 
21  o* 


162  CONSTANTIA   GRIERSON. 

Of  each  one's  top-knot  tell,  and  hatching  pry, 
Like  Tully,  waiting  for  an  augury. 

When  night  approaches,  down  to  table  sit 
With  a  great  crowd,  choice  meat,  and  little  wit ; 
What  horse  won  the  last  race,  how  mighty  Tray, 
At  the  last  famous  hunting,  caught  the  prey; 
Surely  you  can't  but  such  discourse  despise, 
Methinks  I  see  displeasure  in  your  eyes : 
O  my  Lajtitia !  stay  no  longer  there, 
You  'II  soon  forget  that  you  yourself  are  fair; 
Why  will  you  keep  from  us,  from  all  that 's  gay, 
There  in  a  lonely  solitude  to  stay  ? 
Where  not  a  mortal  through  the  year  you  view, 
But  bob-wigged  hunters,  who  their  game  pui-sue 
With  so  much  ardour,  they  'd  a  cock  or  hare 
To  thee  in  all  thy  pleasing  charms  prefer. 

You  write  of  belles  and  beaux  that  there  appear, 

And  gilded  coaches,  such  as  glitter  here ; 

For  gilded  coaches,  each  estated  clown 

That  gravely  slumbers  on  the  bench  has  one  ; 

But  beaux  !  they  're  young  attorneys  sure  you  mean, 

Who  thus  appear  to  your  romantic  brain. 

Alas  !  no  mortal  there  can  talk  to  you, 

That  love,  or  wit,  or  softness  ever  knew ; 

All  they  can  speak  of 's  capias  and  law. 

And  writs  to  keep  the  country  fools  in  awe. 

And  if  to  wit  or  courtship  they  pretend, 

'T  is  the  same  way  that  they  a  cause  defend ; 

In  which  they  give  of  lungs  a  vast  expense, 

But  little  passion,  thought,  or  eloquence  : 

Bad  as  they  are,  they  'd  soon  abandon  you, 

And  gain  and  clamour  in  the  town  pursue. 

So  haste  to  town,  if  even  such  fools  you  prize, 

O  haste  to  town !  and  bless  the  longing  eyes 

Of  your  CoNSTANTIA. 


HENRIETTA.  ONEIL.  163 


HENRIETTA  O'NEIL, 

1758—1793, 

Was  the  only  daughter  of  Charles,  Viscount  Dungarvon,  and  wife 
of  John  O'Neil,  Esquire,  of  Slanes  Castle,  in  the  county  of  An- 
trim, who  was  created  an  Irish  Peer  about  two  months  after  the 
death  of  his  wife.  Lady  O'Neil  was  born  in  1758,  and  died  in 
1793. 

The  two  poems  here  quoted  have  been  preserved  in  the  woiks 
of  her  friend,  Charlotte  Smith. 

ODE    TO   THE    POPPY. 

Not  for  the  promise  of  the  labour'd  field, 
Not  for  the  good  the  yellow  harvests  yield, 

I  bend  at  Ceres'  shrine  ; 
For  dull  to  humid  eyes  appear 
The  golden  glories  of  the  year  ; 

Alas  !  a  melancholy  worship  's  mine  : 

I  hail  the  goddess  for  her  scarlet  flower ! 

Thou  brilliant  weed. 

That  dost  so  far  exceed 
The  richest  gifts  gay  Flora  can  bestow, 
Heedless  I  pass'd  thee  in  life's  morning  hour, 

Thou  comforter  of  woe. 
Till  sorrow  taught  me  to  confess  thy  power. 

In  early  days,  when  Fancy  cheats, 

A  varied  wreath  I  wove, 
Of  laughing  Spring's  luxuriant  sweets, 

To  deck  ungrateful  Love : 


164  HENRIETTA   ONEIL. 


The  rose,  or  thorn,  my  labours  crown'd. 
As  Venus  smil'd,  or  Venus  frown'd. 

But  Love  and  Joy  and  all  their  train  are  flown  ; 
E'en  languid  Hope  no  more  is  mine. 

And  I  will  sing  of  thee  alone  : 

Unless  perchance  the  attributes  of  Grief, 

The  cypress  bud  and  willow  leaf 

Their  pale  funereal  foliage  blend  with  thine. 

Hail,  lovely  blossom  !  thou  canst  ease 

The  wretched  victims  of  Disease  ; 
Canst  close  those  weary  eyes  in  gentle  sleep, 
Which  never  open  but  to  weep  ; 

For  oh  !  thy  potent  charm 

Can  agonizing  Pain  disarm  ; 
Expel  imperious  Memory  from  her  seat, 
And  bid  the  throbbing  heart  forget  to  beat. 

Soul-soothing  plant,  that  can  such  blessings  give, 
By  thee  the  mourner  bears  to  live  ! 

By  thee  the  hopeless  die  ! 

Oh,  ever  friendly  to  despair. 

Might  Sorrow's  pallid  votary  dare. 
Without  a  crime  that  remedy  implore. 

Which  bids  the  spirit  from  its  bondage  fly, 
I  'd  court  thy  palliative  aid  no  more. 

No  more  I'd  sue  that  thou  shouldst  spread 

Thy  spell  around  my  aching  head ; 

But  would  conjure  thee  to  impart 

Thy  balsam  for  a  broken  heart ! 

And  by  thy  soft  Lethean  power, 

Inestimable  flower ! 

Burst  these  terrestial  bonds,  and  other  regions  try  ! 


VERSES    WRITTEN    ON    SEEING    HER   TWO   SONS    AT    PLAY. 

Sweet  age  of  blest  delusion  !  blooming  boys, 
Ah  !  revel  long  in  childhood's  thouglidess  joys, 
With  light  and  pliant  spirits,  that  can  stoop 
To  follow  sporUvely  the  rolling  hoop  : 
To  watch  the  sleeping  top  with  gay  delight, 
Or  mark  with  raptur'd  gaze  the  sailing  kite. 
Or  eagerly  pursuing  Pleasure's  call, 
-  Can  find  it  centred  in  the  bounding  ball ! 
Alas  !  the  day  will  come,  when  sports  like  these 
Must  lose  their  magic  and  their  power  to  please  ; 
Too  swiftly  fled,  the  rosy  hours  of  youth 
Shall  yield  their  fairy  charms  to  mournful  Truth  ; 
Even  now,  a  mother's  fond  prophetic  fear 
Sees  the  dark  train  of  human  ills  appear ; 
Views  various  fortune  for  each  lovely  child. 
Storms  for  the  bold,  and  anguish  for  the  mild  ; 
Beholds  already  those  expressive  eyes 
Beam  a  sad  certainty  of  future  sighs ; 
And  dreads  each  suffering  those  dear  breasts  may  know 
In  their  long  passage  through  a  world  of  woe  ; 
Perchance  predestin'd  every  pang  to  prove. 
That  treacherous  friends  inflict,  or  faithless  love  ; 
For  ah  1  how  few  have  found  existence  sweet. 
Where  grief  is  sure,  but  happiness  deceit ! 

The  first  of  the  two  beautiful  poems  above  quoted  will  be  found 
in  Charlotte  Smith's  Desmond  ^  the  last  in  the  same  writer's 
second  Volume  of  Poems  :  but  I  have  met  with  both  of  them 
frequently  in  books  containing  poetical  selections.  I  am  not 
aware  that  Lady  O'Neil  wrote  any  other  verses. 


166  MARY   ROBINSON. 


MARY   ROBINSON, 

1758—1800, 

Was  a  native  of  Bristol,  where  she  was  born  in  1758.  Her 
father,  whose  name  was  Darby,  was  a  merchant  there.  At  the 
age  of  fifteen  she  married  a  young  lawyer,  Mr.  Robinson,  but 
the  union  was  not  a  happy  one.  Profligacy  and  extravagance 
soon  reduced  his  circumstances,  and  Mrs.  Robinson,  whose 
beauty  and  talents  were  remarkable,  turned  for  subsistence  to  the 
stage.  Her  character  suffered  by  her  connection  with  the  theatre ; 
and  she  became,  unfortunately,  notorious  for  her  gallantries.  As 
an  authoress,  she  displays  very  considerable  powers,  but,  being 
one  of  the  Delia  Cruscan  school,  she  was  mercilessly  attacked  by 
Gifford.  She  died  in  1800. 
I  extract  two  of  her  poems. 

I.       SONNET. 

High  on  a  rock,  coeval  with  the  skies, 

A  temple  stands,  rear'd  by  immortal  powers 

To  Chastity  divine  !  ambrosial  flowers 
Twining  round  icicles,  in  columns  rise. 
Mingling  with  pendent  gems  of  orient  dyes  ! 

Piercing  the  air,  a  golden  crescent  towers, 
Veil'd  by  transparent  clouds  ;  while  smiling  hours 
Shake  from  their  varying  wings  celestial  joys  ! 

Tlie  steps  of  spotless  marble  scatter'd  o'er 
With  deathless  roses,  arm'd  with  many  a  thorn. 

Lead  to  the  altar.     On  the  frozen  floor. 
Studded  with  tear-drops,  pt  trifled  by  scorn. 

Pale  vestals  kneel,  the  goddess  to  adore. 
While  Love,  his  arrows  broke,  retires  forlorn. 


MARY   ROBINSON.  167 


THE    SNOW-DROP. 

The  Snow-drop,  Winter's  timid  child, 
Awakes  to  life,  bedew'd  with  tears ; 
And  flings  around  its  fragrance  mild, 
And  where  no  rival  flow'rets  bloom. 
Amid  the  bare  and  chilling  gloom, 
A  beauteous  gem  appears  ! 

All  weak  and  wan,  with  head  inclin'd. 

Its  parent  breast  the  drifted  snow  ; 
It  trembles  while  the  ruthless  wind 
Bends  its  slim  form  ;  the  tempest  lowers, 
Its  emerald  eye  drops  crystal  showers 
On  its  cold  bed  below. 

Poor  flower !  on  thee  the  sunny  beam 
No  touch  of  genial  warmth  bestows  ; 

Except  to  thaw  the  icy  stream 

Whose  little  current  purls  along 

Thy  fair  and  glossy  charms  among. 
And  whelms  thee  as  it  flows. 

The  night  breeze  tears  thy  silken  dress, 

Which  deck'd  with  silvery  lustre  shone  ; 
The  morn  returns  not  thee  to  bless. 
The  gaudy  crocus  flaunts  its  pride. 
And  triumphs  where  its  rival  died, 
Unshelter'd  and  unknown  ! 

No  sunny  beam  shall  gild  thy  grave. 

No  bird  of  pity  thee  deplore  ; 
There  shall  no  spreading  branches  wave, 
For  Spring  shall  all  her  gems  unfold. 
And  revel  mid  her  buds  of  gold, 

When  thou  art  seen  no  more  ! 


168  MARY  ROBINSON. 


Where'er  I  find  thee,  gentle  flower, 

Thou  still  art  sweet  and  dear  to  me  ! 
For  I  have  known  the  cheerless  hour. 
Have  seen  the  sunbeams  cold  and  pale. 
Have  felt  the  cliilling  wintry  gale, 
And  wept  and  shrunk  like  thee 


MRS.   HESTER   CHAPONE.  169 


MRS.  HESTER  CHAPONE. 

1727—1801. 

Mrs.  Chapone,  well  known  for  her  admirable  Letters  on  the 
Improvement  of  the  Mind,  was  the  daughter  of  Mr.  Mulso,  of 
Twywell,  in  Northamptonshire,  and  was  born  in  1727.  She 
married  in  1760,  but  her  husband  died  within  the  first  year  of  their 
union,  leaving  her  in  very  straitened  circumstances.  Her  first 
poetical  work,  a  Volume  of  Miscellanies,  appeared  in  1775,  and 
attracted  much  attention.  It  is  to  her  prose  writings,  however, 
that  she  chiefly  owes  her  fame.     She  died  in  1801. 

WRITTEN    DURING    A    STORM    AT    MIDNIGHT,   1749. 

In  gloomy  pomp  whilst  awful  midnight  reigns. 

And  wide  o'er  earth  her  mournful  mantle  spreads, 
Whilst  deep-voiced  thunders  threaten  guilty  heads, 

And  rushing  torrents  drown  the  frighted  plains. 

And  quick-glanc'd  lightnings  to  my  dazzled  sight 

Betray  the  double  horrors  of  the  night ; 

A  solemn  stillness  creeps  upon  my  soul. 
And  all  its  powers  in  deep  attention  die  ; 
My  heart  forgets  to  beat ;  my  steadfast  eye 

Catclies  the  flying  gleam  ;  the  distant  roll, 

Advancing  gradual,  swells  upon  my  ear 

With  louder  peals,  more  dreadful  as  more  near. 

Awake,  my  soul,  from  thy  forgetful  trance  ! 
The  storm  calls  loud,  and  Meditation  wakes, 
How  at  the  sound  pale  Superstition  shakes, 
22  P 


170  MRS.   HESTER   CHAPONE. 

Whilst  all  her  train  of  frantic  Fears  advance  ! 
Children  of  Darkness,  hence  !  fly  far  from  me  ! 
And  dwell  with  Guilland  Infidelity  ! 

But  come,  with  look  composed  and  sober  pace, 
Calm  Contemplation,  come  !  and  hither  lead 
Devotion,  that  on  earth  disdains  to  tread ; 
Her  inward  flame  illumes  her  glowing  face. 
Her  upcast  eye  and  spreading  wings  prepare 
Her  flight  for  Heaven,  to  find  her  treasure  there. 

She  sees  enraptured,  through  the  thickest  gloom, 
Celestial  beauty  beam,  and  midst  the  howl 
Of  warring  winds,  sweet  music  charms  her  soul ; 
She  sees,  while  rifted  oaks  in  flame  consume, 
A  Father-God,  that  o'er  the  storm  presides, 
Threatens,  to  save  —  and  loves  when  most  he  chides  ! 


ODE    TO    SOLITUDE. 


Thou  gentle  nurse  of  pleasing  woe. 

To  thee  from  crowds,  and  noise,  and  show, 

With  eager  haste  I  fly  ; 
Thrice  Avelcome,  friendly  Solitude, 
O  let  no  busy  foot  intrude, 

Nor  listening  ear  be  nigh  ! 

Soft,  silent,  melancholy  maid, 
With  thee  to  yon  sequester'd  shade 

My  pensive  steps  I  bend  ; 
Still  at  the  mild  approach  of  niglit, 
When  Cynthia  lends  her  sober  light. 

Do  thou  my  walk  attend ! 


1 
MRS.   HESTER    CHAPONE.                              171 

To  thee  alone,  my  conscious  heart 

Its  tender  sorrow  dares  impart, 

And  ease  my  lab'ring  breast; 

To  thee  I  trust  the  rising  sigh 

And  bid  the  tear  that  swells  my  eye 

No  longer  be  supprest. 

With  thee  among  the  haunted  groves, 

The  lovely  sorceress,  Fancy,  roves; 

0  let  me  find  her  here  ! 

For  she  can  time  and  space  control, 

And  swift  transport  my  fleeting  soul 

To  all  it  holds  most  dear. 

Ah  !  no — ye  vain  delusions,  hence  ! 

No  more  the  hallow'd  innocence 

Of  Solitude  pervert ! 

Shall  Fancy  cheat  the  precious  hour, 

Sacred  to  Wisdom's  awful  power. 

And  calm  Reflection's  part  ? 

0  Wisdom  !  from  the  sea-beat  shore 

Where,  listening  to  the  solemn  roar, 

Thy  loved  Eliza  *  strays,                                                  ' 

Vouchsafe  to  visit  my  retreat, 

And  teach  my  erring,  trembling  feet               ' 

Thy  heaven-protected  ways  ! 

0  guide  me  to  the  humble  cell 

Where  Resignation  loves  to  dwell. 

Contentment's  bower  in  view  ! 

Nor  pining  grief  with  absence  drear, 

Nor  sick  suspense,  nor  anxious  fear. 

Shall  there  my  steps  pursue. 

*  Eliza  Carter. 

172  MRS.   HESTER  CHAPONE. 


There,  let  my  soul  to  Him  aspire, 
Whom  none  e'er  sought  with  vain  desire, 

Nor  lov'd  in  sad  despair  ; 
There,  to  his  gracious  will  divine, 
My  dearest,  fondest  hope  resign, 

And  all  my  tenderest  care. 

Then  peace  shall  heal  this  wounded  breast, 
That  pants  to  see  another  blest, 

From  selfish  passion  pure  ; 
Peace,  which  when  human  wishes  rise, 
Intense,  for  augfht  beneath  the  skies, 

Can  never  be  secure. 


GEORGIANA,   DUCHESS   OF  DEVONSHIRE.  173 


GEORGIA.NA,   DUCHESS    OF    DEVONSHIRE, 

1757—1806, 

Was  the  daughter  of  John,  Earl  Spencer,  and  was  born  in  1757. 
"  This  beautiful  woman,  who  shone  a  brilliant  star  in  the  fashion- 
able world,  cultivated  and  liberally  patronised  literature  and  the 
fine  arts.  Gibbon  says,  '  She  was  made  for  something  better 
than  a  duchess.'  The  following  poem  has  been  translated  into 
French  by  the  Abbe  De  Lille."     The  duchess  died  in  1806. 

THE    PASSAGE    OF    THE    MOUNT    ST.    GOTHARD. 

To  my  Children. 

t        Ye  plains,  where  threefold  harvests  press  the  ground. 
Ye  climes,  where  genial  gales  incessant    swell, 
Where  Art  and  Nature  shed  profusely  round 
Their  rival  wonders  —  Italy,  farewell ! 

Still  may  thy  year  in  fullest  splendour  shine  ! 

Its  icy  darts  in  vain  may  Winter  throw  1 
To  thee  a  parent,  sister,  I  consign, 

And  wing'd  with  health,  I  woo  thy  gales  to  blow. 

Yet  pleas'd  Helvetia's  rugged  brows  I  see. 

And  through  their  craggy  steeps  delighted  roam  ; 

Pleas'd  with  a  people,  honest,  brave,  and  free. 
Whilst  every  step  conducts  me  nearer  home. 

I  wander  where  Tesino  madly  flows, 
From  cliif  to  cliflf  in  foaming  eddies  tost ; 

On  the  rude  mountain's  barren  breast  he  rose, 
In  Po's  broad  wave  now  hurries  to  be  lost. 


174  GEORGIANA,   DUCHESS   OF   DEVONSHIRE. 

His  shores  neat  huts  and  verdant  pastures  fill, 
And  hills  where  woods  of  pine  the  storm  defy; 

While,  scorning  vegetation,  higher  still 
Rise  the  bare  rocks,  coeval  with  the  sky. 

Upon  his  banks  a  favour'd  spot  I  found, 

Where  shade  and  beauty  tempted  to  repose : 

Within  a  grove,  by  mountains  circled  round. 
By  rocks  o'erhung,  my  rustic  seat  I  chose. 

Advancing  thence,  by  gentle  pace  and  slow, 
Unconscious  of  the  way  my  footsteps  prest, 

Sudden,  supported  by  the  hills  below, 

St.  Gothard's  summits  rose  above  the  rest. 

Midst  towering  cliffs,  and  tracts  of  endless  cold. 
The'  industrious  path  pervades  the  rugged  stone, 

And  seems  —  Helvetia  !  let  thy  toils  be  told  — 
A  granite  girdle  o'er  the  mountain  thrown. 

No  haunt  of  man  the  weary  traveller  greets, 
No  vegetation  smiles  upon  the  moor. 

Save  where  the  floweret  breathes  uncultur'd  sweets. 
Save  where  the  patient  monk  receives  the  poor. 

Yet  let  not  these  rude  paths  be  coldly  traced. 
Let  not  these  wilds  with  listless  steps  be  trod  ; 

Here  fragrance  scorns  not  to  perfume  the  waste, 
Here  charity  uplifts  the  mind  to  God. 

His  humble  board  the  holy  man  prepares. 

And  simple  food  and  wholesome  lore  bestows ; 

Extols  the  treasures  tiiat  his  mounlam  bears, 
And  paints  the  perils  of  impending  snows. 

For  whilst  bleak  Winter  numbs  with  chilling  hand, 
Where  frequent  crosses  mark  the  traveller's  fate. 

In  slow  procession  moves  the  merchant  band, 
And  silent  treads  where  tottering  ruins  wait. 


GEORGIANA,   DUCHESS   OF   DEVONSHIRE,  175 


Yet,  midst  those  ridges,  midst  that  drifted  snow, 
Can  Nature  deign  her  wonders  to  display ; 

Here  Adularia  shines  with  vivid  glow. 
And  gems  of  crystal  sparkle  to  the  day. 

Here,  too,  the  hoary  mountain's  brow  to  grace, 
Five  silver  lakes  in  tranquil  state  are  seen  ; 

While  from  their  waters  many  a  stream  we  trace. 
That,  scap'd  from  bondage,  rolls  the  rocks  between. 

Hence  flows  the  Reuss  to  seek  her  wedded  love. 
And,  with  the  Rhine,  Germanic  climes  explore ; 

Her  stream  I  mark'd,  and  saw  her  wildly  move 

Down  the  bleak  mountain,  through  her  craggy  shore. 

My  weary  footsteps  hop'd  for  rest  in  vain. 
For  steep  on  steep  in  rude  confusion  rose  : 

At  length  I  paus'd  above  a  fertile  plain. 
That  promis'd  shelter,  and  foretold  repose. 

Fair  runs  the  streamlet  o'er  the  pasture  green. 
Its  margin  gay,  with  flocks  and  cattle  spread  ; 

Embowering  trees  the  peaceful  village  screen, 

And  guard  from  snow  each  dwelling's  jutting  shed. 

Sweet  vale  !  whose  bosom  wastes  and  clifls  surround, 
Let  me  awhile  thy  friendly  shelter  share  ! 

Emblem  of  life  !  where  some  bright  hours  are  found 
Amidst  the  darkest,  dreariest  years  of  care. 

Delv'd  through  the  rock,  the  secret  passage  bends  ; 

And  beauteous  horror  strikes  the  dazzled  sight  ; 
Beneath  tlie  pendent  bridge  the  stream  descends 

Calm  —  till  it  tumbles  o'er  the  frowning  height. 

We  view  the  fearful  pass  —  we  wind  along 

The  path  that  marks  the  terrors  of  our  way  — 

Midst  beetling  rocks,  and  hanging  woods  among. 
The  torrent  pours,  and  breathes  its  glittering  spray 


176  GEORGIANA,   DUCHESS   OF  DEVONSHIRE. 


Weary  at  length,  serener  scenes  we  hail  — 

More  cultur'd  groves  o'ershade  the  grassy  meads  ; 

The  neat  though  wooden  hamlets  deck  the  vale, 
And  Altorf 's  spires  recall  heroic  deeds. 

But  though  no  more  amidst  those  scenes  I  roam, 
My  fancy  long  eacla  image  shall  retain  — 

The  flock  returning  to  its  welcome  home. 
And  the  wild  carol  of  the  cow-herd's  strain. 

Lucernia's  lake  its  glassy  surface  shows, 

Whilst  Nature's  varied  beauties  deck  its  side  ; 

Here  rocks  and  woods  its  narrow  waves  enclose. 
And  there  its  spreading  bosom  opens  wide. 

And  hail  the  chapel!  hail  the  platform  wild! 

Where  Tell  directed  the  avenging  dart, 
With  well-stnmg  arm,  that  first  preserv'd  his  child, 

Then  wing'd  the  arrow  to  the  tyrant's  heart. 

Across  the  lake,  and  deep  embower'd  in  wood, 
Behold  another  hallow'd  chapel  stand. 

Where  three  Swiss  heroes  lawless  force  withstood. 
And  stamp'd  the  freedom  of  their  native  land. 

Their  liberty  required  no  rites  uncouth, 

No  blood  demanded,  and  no  slaves  enchained ; 

Her  rule  was  gentle,  and  her  voice  was  truth. 
By  social  order  form'd,  by  laws  restrain'd. 

We  quit  the  lake  —  and  cultivation's  toil. 

With  Nature's  charms  conibin'd,  adorns  the  way ; 

And  well-earn'd  wealth  improves  the  ready  soil, 
And  simple  manners  still  maintain  their  sway. 

Farewell,  Helvetia !  from  whose  lofty  breast 
Proud  Alps  arise,  and  copious  rivers  flow  ; 

Where,  source  of  streams,  eternal  glaciers  rest. 
And  peaceful  Science  gilds  the  plain  below. 


GEORGIANA,  DUCHESS   OF   DEVONSHIRE.  177 

Oft  on  thy  rocks  the  wondering  eye  shall  gaze, 
Thy  valleys  oft  the  raptur'd  bosom  seek  — 

There,  Nature's  hand  her  boldest  work  displays, 
Here,  bliss  domestic  beams  on  every  cheek. 

Hope  of  my  life  !  dear  children  of  my  heart! 

That  anxious  heart,  to  each  fond  feeling  true. 
To  you  still  pants  each  pleasure  to  impart, 

And  more  —  O  transport !  —  reach  its  home  and  you. 


23 


178  MISS   ELIZABETH   CARTER. 


MISS  ELIZABETH  CARTER, 

1717—1806, 

One  of  the  most  learned  of  the  British  poetesses,  was  the  daugh- 
ter of  Dr.  Nicholas  Carter  of  Deal,  in  Kent,  where  she  was  born 
in  the  year  1717.  Her  father  appears  to  have  taken  the  greatest 
possible  pains  Avith  her  education;  and,  although  at  first  slow 
and  inapt  at  study,  she  eventually  became  remarkably  distinguished 
for  her  extensive  and  varied  acquirements.  She  was  well  ac- 
quainted with  the  Greek,  Latin,  Hebrew,  French,  Italian,  Span- 
ish, and  German  languages  ;  and,  in  later  life,  attained  considera- 
ble knowledge  of  Portuguese  and  Arabic.  ]Miss  Carter  acquired 
great  celebrity  by  her  translation  of  Epictetus,  and  was  intimately 
acquainted  with  Dr.  Johnson  and  the  other  chief  literary  charac- 
ters of  the  day. 

She  never  married.  She  had  consented  to  an  union  with  a 
gentleman  whose  name  has  not  transpired  ;  but  she  eventually 
refused  him  in  consequence  of  his  having  written  some  verses 
which  she  did  not  approve!  It  is  satisfactory  to  add,  that  the 
gentleman  subsequently  found  a  less  squeamish  partner. 

Miss  Carter  died  in  London  in  1806,  being  89  years  of  age. 

This  lady's  poetical  writings  display  but  little  passion  or  ima- 
gination, and  have  none  of  those  strong  thoughts  and  sublime 
ideas  which  betoken  lofty  genius :  but  her  verses  exhibit  great 
classical  purity,  and  are  remarkable  for  an  unusual  sweetness  of 
versification.  They  embody,  too,  a  cheerful  serenity  very  highly 
calculated  to  improve  the  reader's  mind  ;  for  although  Miss  Car- 
ter translated  Epictetus,  she  by  no  means  followed  his  philosophy. 

The  following  Ode  to  Wisdom  (whicli  originally  appeared  in 
Richardson's  Clarissa),  is  a  fair  average  sample  of  her  powers. 


MISS  ELIZABETH   CARTER.  179 


ODE    TO    WISDOM. 


The  solitary  bird  of  night 

Through  the  thick  shades  now  wings  his  flight, 

And  quits  this  time-shook  tower  ; 
Where  shelter'd  from  the  blaze    of  day, 
In  philosophic  gloom  he  lay, 

Beneath  his  ivy  bower. 

With  joy  I  hear  the  solemn  sound, 
Which  midnight  echoes  waft  around, 

And  sighing  gales  repeat : 
Favourite  of  Pallas  !  I  attend, 
And  faithful  to  thy  summons,  bend 

At  Wisdom's  awful  seat. 

She  loves  the  cool,  the  silent  eve. 
Where  no  false  shows  of  life  deceive. 

Beneath  the  lunar  ray. 
Here  Folly  drops  each  vain  disguise. 
Nor  sports  her  gaily-colour' d  dyes. 

As  in  the  glare  of  day. 

O  Pallas!  queen  ofev'ry  art. 

That  glads  the  sense  and  mends  the  heart. 

Blest  source  of  purer  joys  : 
In  ev'ry  form  of  beauty  bright, 
That  captivates  the  mental  sight. 

With  pleasure  and  surprise  : 

To  thy  unspotted  shrine  I  bow  : 
Attend  thy  modest  suppliant's  vow. 

That  breathes  no  wild  desires: 
But,  taught  by  thy  unerring  rules, 
To  shun  the  fruitless  wish  of  fools. 

To  nobler  views  aspires. 


180  MISS   ELIZABETH   CARTER. 

Not  Fortune's  gem,  Ambition's  plume, 
Nor  Cytheraea's  fading  bloom, 

Be  objects  of  my  prayer: 
Let  Avarice,  Vanity,  and  Pride, 
Those  envied,  glittering  toys,  divide. 

The  dull  rewards  of  care. 

To  me  thy  better  gifts  impart. 
Each  moral  beauty  of  the  heart. 

By  studious  thoughts  refined  ; 
For  Wealth,  the  smiles  of  glad  content, 
For  Power,  its  amplest,  best  extent, 

An  empire  o'er  the  mind. 

When  Fortune  drops  her  gay  parade. 
When  Pleasure's  transient  roses  fade, 

And  wither  in  the  tomb  ; 
Unchang'd  is  thy  immortal  prize, 
Thy  ever-verdant  laurels  rise 

In  undecaying  bloom. 

By  thee  protected,  I  defy 

The  coxcomb's  sneer,  the  stupid  lie 

Of  ignorance  and  spiie  : 
Alike  contemn  the  leaden  fool. 
And  all  the  pointed  r'dicule 

Of  undiscerning  wit. 

From  envy,  hurry,  noise,  and  strife. 
The  dull  impertinence  of  life. 

In  thy  retreat  I  rest : 
Pursue  thee  to  the  pe?coful  groves, 
Where  Plato's  sacred  spirit  roves. 

In  all  thy  beauties  drest. 

He  bade  Ilissus'  tuneful  stream 
Convey  thy  phil  sophic  thnme. 
Of  perfect  fair  and  irood : 


Attentive  Athens  caught  tlie  sound, 
And  all  her  listening  sons  around 
In  awful  silence  stood  : 

Reclaim'd,  her  Avild  licentious  youth, 
Confess'd  the  potent  voice  of  truth, 

And  felt  its  just  control : 
The  passions  ceas'd  their  loud  alarms, 
And  Virtue's  soft  persuasive  charms 

O'er  all  their  senses  stole. 

Thy  breath  inspires  the  poet's  song, 
The  patriot's  free  unbiass'd  tongue, 

The  hero's  generous  strife  : 
Thine  are  retirement's  silent  joys, 
And  all  the  sweet  engaging  ties 

Of  still,  domestic  life. 

No  more  to  fabled  names  confined. 
To  thee,  supreme,  all  perfect  Mind, 

My  thoughts  direct  their  flight; 
Wisdom's  thy  gift,  and  all  her  force 
From  Thee  derived,  eternal  source 

Of  Intellectual  light ! 

0  send  her  sure,  her  steady  ray, 
To  regulate  my  doubtful  way. 

Through  life's  perplexing  road ; 
The  mists  of  error  to  control. 
And  through  its  gloom  direct  my  soul 

To  happiness  and  good  ! 

Beneath  her  clear  discerning  eye. 
The  visionary  shadows  fly 

Of  Folly's  painted  show  : 
She  sees,  through  every  fair  disguise, 
That  all  but  Virtue's  solid  joys 

Is  vanity  and  woe. 

Q 


182  MISS   ELIZABETH   CARTER. 


LINES    WRITTEN    AT    MIDNIGHT    DURING    A    THUNDER-STORM. 

Let  coward  Guilt,  with  pallid  Fear, 

To  sheltering  caverns  fly, 
And  justly  dread  the  vengeful  fate 

That  thunders  through  the  sky. 

Protected  by  that  Hand,  whose  law 

The  threatening  storms  obey, 
Intrepid  Virtue  smiles  secure 

As  in  the  blaze  of  day. 

In  the  thick  cloud's  tremendous  gloom, 

The  lightning's  lurid  glare. 
It  views  the  same  all  gracious  Power 

That  breathes  the  vernal  air. 

Through  Nature's  every  varying  scene, 

By  different  ways  pursued. 
The  one  eternal  end  of  Heaven 

Is  universal  good. 

With  like  beneficent  effect, 

O'er  flaming  ether  glows, 
As  when  it  tunes  the  linnet's  voice, 

Or  blushes  in  the  rose. 

Bv  reason  taught  to  scorn  those  fears 

That  vulgar  minds  molest. 
Let  no  fantastic  terrors  break 

My  dear  Narcissus'  rest. 

Thy  life  may  all  the  tenderest  care 

Of  Providence  defend ; 
And  delegated  angels  round 

Their  guardian  wings  extend ! 


MISS   ELIZABETH   CARTER.  183 


When  through  Creation's  vast  expanse 
The  last  dread  thunders  roll, 

Untune  the  concord  of  the  spheres, 
And  shake  the  rising  soul ; 

Unmov'd,  may'st  thou  the  final  storm 

Of  jarring  worlds  survey, 
That  ushers  in  the  glad  serene 

Of  everlasting  day  ! 


184  ANN   YEARSLEY. 


ANN    YEARSLEY, 

1760—1806, 

A  NATIVE  of  Bristol,  where  she  lived  until  maturity,  in  very- 
humble  circumstances.  She  was  lifted  from  obscurity  by  Mrs. 
Hannfih  More,  who  published  her  poems  ;  and  prefaced  them 
by  a  letter  to  Mrs.  Montagu. 

Mrs.  Yearsley's  poems,  although  often  laboured  and  artificial, 
frequently  display  great  force  and  felicity  of  expression ;  but 
they  contain  nothing  striking  in  thought  or  sentiment. 

FROM    CLIFTON     HILL. 

Ye  silent,  solemn,  strong,  stupendous  heights, 
Whose  terror-striking  frown  the  schoolboy  frights 
From  the  young  daw  ;  whilst  in  your  rugged  breast 
The  chattering  brood,  secur'd  by  Horror,  rest : 
Say,  Muse,  what  arm  the  lowering  brothers  cleft, 
And  the  calm  stream  in  this  low  cradle  left  ? 
Coeval  with  Creation  tliey  look  down. 
And,  sundcr'd,  still  retain  their  native  frown. 
Beneath  those  heights,  lo  !  balmy  springs  arise, 
To  which  pale  Beauty's  faded  image  flies ; 
Their  kindly  powers  life's  genial  heat  restore, 
The  tardy  pulse,  whose  throbs  were  almost  o'er, 
Here  beats  a  livelier  tune.     The  breezy  air, 
To  the  wild  hills  invites  the  languid  fair; 
Fear  not  the  western  gale,  thou  timorous  maid, 
Nor  dread  its  blast  shall  thy  soft  form  invade  ; 
Though  cool  and  strong  the  quickening  breezes  blow, 
And  meet  thy  panting  breatli,  'twill  quickly  grow 


ANN  YEARSLEY.  185 


More  strong:  then  drink  the  odoriferous  draught, 

With  unseen  particles  of  heahh  'tis  fraught 

Sit  not  within  the  threshold  of  Despair, 

Nor  plead  a  weakness  fatal  to  the  fair ; 

Soft  term  for  Indolence,  politely  given, 

By  which  we  win  no  joy  from  earth  or  heaven. 

Foul  fiend  !  thou  bane  of  health,  fair  virtue's  bane. 

Death  of  true  pleasure,  source  of  real  pain  ! 

Keen  exercise  shall  brace  the  fainting  soul. 

And  bid  her  slacken'd  powers  more  vigorous  roll. 

«  *  *  *  * 

How  thickly  cloth'd,  yon  rock  of  scanty  soil, 
Its  lovely  verdure  scorns  the  hand  of  toil. 
Here  the  deep  green,  and  here  the  lively  plays. 
The  russet  beech,  and  ever  blooming  bays  ; 
The  vengeful  black-thorn,  of  wild  beauties  proud, 
Blooms  beauteous  in  the  gloomy  chequer'd  crowd  : 
The  barren  elm,  the  useful  feeding  oak. 
Whose  Hamadryad  ne'er  should  feel  the  stroke 
Of  axe  relentless,  till  twice  fifty  years 
Have  crown'd  her  woodland  joys  and  fruitful  cares. 

The  poisonous  reptiles  here  their  mischiefs  bring. 
And  through  the  helpless  sleeper  dart  the  sting ; 
The  toad  envenom'd,  hating  human  eyes, 
Here  springs  to  light,  lives  long,  and  aged  dies.. 
The  harmless  snail,  slow  journeying,  creeps  away,. 
Sucks  the  young  dew,  but  shuns  the  bolder  day. 
The  long-nosed  mouse,  the  woodland  rat  is  here,. 
The  sightless  mole,  with  nicely  pointed  ear:; 
The  timid  rabbit  hails  the  impervious  gloom, 
Eludes  the  dog's  keen  scent,  and  shuns  her  doom. 

Various  the  tenants  of  this  tangled  wood. 
Who  skulk  all  day,  all  night  review  the  flood. 
Chew  the  wash'd  weed  driven  by  the  beating  wave, 
Or  feast  on  dreadful  food,  which  hop'd  a  milder  grave. 
24  Q* 


186  ANN  YEARSLEY. 


Hail,  useful  Channel  !   Commerce  spreads  her  wings, 
From  either  pole  her  various  treasure  brings ; 
Wafted  by  thee,  the  mariner,  long  stray'd, 
Clasps  the  fond  parent  and  the  sighing  maid ; 
Joy  tunes  the  cry  ;  the  rocks  rebound  the  roar : 
The  deep  vibration  quivers  'long  the  shore  : 
The  merchant  hears,  and  hails  the  peeping  mast, 
The  wave-drench'd  sailor  scorns  all  peril  past : 
Now  love  and  joy  the  noisy  crew  invite. 
And  clumsy  music  crowns  the  rough  delight. 


FROM    A    POEM   ON    MRS.    MONTAGU. 

Oft  as  I  trod  my  native  wilds  alone, 

Strong  gusts  of  thought  would  rise,  but  rise  to  die  ; 

The  portals  of  the  swelling  soul  ne'er  oped 

By  liberal  converse,  rude  ideas  strove 

Awhile  for  vent,  but  found  it  not,  and  died. 

Thus  rust  the  mind's  best  powers.     Yon  starry  orbs, 

Majestic  ocean,  flowery  vales,  gay  groves. 

Eve-wasting  lawns,  and  heaven-attempting  hills. 

Which  bound  the  horizon,  and  which  curb  the  view ; 

All  those,  with  beauteous  imagery,  awaked 

My  ravish'd  soul  to  extacy  untaught, 

To  all  the  transport  the  rapt  sense  can  bear ; 

But  all  expired,  for  want  of  powers  to  speak  ; 

All  perish'd  in  the  mind  as  soon  as  born, 

Eras'd  more  quick  than  ciphers  on  the  shore. 

O'er  which  the  cruel  waves  unheedful  roll. 


The  most  precocious  of  our  female  poets,  was  the  daughter  of 
the  Rev.  Charles  Symonds,  and  was  born  in  1792.  She  died  at 
the  age  of  eleven  years,  and  it  may  be  safely  said  that  none  of 
our  poetesses  have  exhibited  any  thing  like  the  same  genius  at 
the  same  age. 

I  subjoin  a  variety  of  specimens. 


THE    HAREBELL. 


In  Spring's  green  lap  there  blooms  a  flower, 
Whose  cup  imbibes  each  vernal  shower  ; 
That  sips  fresh  nature's  balmy  dew, 
Clad  in  her  sweetest,  purest  blue  ; 
Yet  shuns  the  ruddy  eye  of  morning, 
The  shaggy  wood's  brown  shades  adorning. 
Simple  flow'ret !  child  of  May  ! 
Though  hid  from  the  broad  gaze  of  day, 
Doom'd  in  the  shade  thy  sweets  to  shed, 
Unnotic'd  droops  thy  languid  head  ; 
Still  nature's  darling  thou' It  remain. 
She  feeds  thee  with  her  softest  rain  ; 
Fills  each  sweet  bud  with  honied  tears, 
With  genial  gales  thy  bosom  cheers. 
Ah,  then  unfold  thy  simple  charms, 
In  yon  deep  thicket's  circling  arms, 
Far  from  the  fierce  and  sultry  glare, 
No  heedless  hand  shall  harm  thee  there ; 


188  CAROLINE    SYMONDS. 


Sti)l>  then,  avoid  the  gaudy  scene, 

The  flaunting  sun,  th'  embroider'd  green. 

And  bloom,  and  fade,  with  chaste  reserve,  unseen. 


THE    FADED    ROSE, 
Which  grew  on  the  tomb  of  Zelida. 

I  gaz'd  on  the  rose-bud,  I  heav'd  a  deep  sigh. 
And  mine  eyelid  was  gemm'd  with  a  tear; 

O  let  me,  I  cried,  by  my  Zelida  lie. 
For  all  that  I  value  sleeps  here  ! 

Her  sweetness,  simplicity,  virtue,  and  charms, 
Could  with  naught  but  a  seraph  compare  ; 

Ah !  now  since  my  Zelida's  torn  from  my  arms, 
There  is  nothing  I  love,  but  despair. 

This  rose-tree  once  flourish'd,  and  sweeten'd  the  air, 
Like  its  blossom,  all  lovely,  she  grew  ! 

The  scent  of  her  breath,  as  its  fragrance  was  rare, 
And  her  cheeks  were  more  fresh  than  its  hue. 

She  planted,  she  lov'd  it,  she  water'd  its  head, 

And  its  bloom  every  rival  defied  ; 
But  alas  !  what  was  beauty  or  virtue,  soon  fled. 

In  Spring  they  both  blossom'd  and  died. 

And  now  for  my  bosom  this  life  has  no  charms, 

I  feel  all  its  troubles  and  care  ; 
And  since  my  dear  Zelida's  torn  from  my  arms. 

There  is  nothing  I  love,  but  despair. 


CAROLINE   SYMONDS.  189 


The  subjoined  lines  display  great  delicacy  of  feeling,  and 
exhibit  a  sweetness  and  simplicity  of  fancy,  very  remarkable 
in  so  young  a  writer. 


To  Lady  Lucy  Foley,  on  her  birthday,  February,  1803. 

No  morn  now  blushes  on  the  enamour'd  sight, 

No  genial  sun  now  warms  the  torpid  day  ; 

Since  February  sternly  check'd  his  ray, 
When  Lucy's  eyes  first  beam'd  their  azure  light. 
What  though  no  vernal  flowers  my  hand  invite 

To  crop  their  fragrance  on  your  natal  day  ; 

Lucy,  for  you  the  snow-drop  and  the  bay, 
Shall  blend  the  unfading  green  and  modest  white. 
Though  on  this  festive  hour  with  aspect  bleak, 
Stern  Winter  frowns,  in  icy  garments  drest; 
Still  may  the  rosy  Summer  robe  your  cheek, 

And  the  green  Spring  still  bud  within  your  breast ; 
Till  the  world  fading  on  your  closing  eyes, 
You  find  a  golden  Autumn  in  the  skies. 


The  following  sonnet,  singularly  applicable  to  herself,  was  ma,de 
ner  Epitaph : 

THE    BLIGHTED    ROSEBUD. 

(Insaihed  on  the   Writer's    Tomb.) 

Scarce  had  thy  velvet  lips  imbib'd  the  dew, 
And  nature  hail'd  thee,  infant  queen  of  May  ; 
Scarce  saw  thy  opening  bloom   the  sun's  broad  ray. 

And  on  the  air  its  tender  fragrance  threw ; 

When  the  north  wind  enamour'd  of  thee  grew, 

And  from  his  chilling  kiss,  thy  charms  decay ; 


190  CAROLINE  SYMONDS, 


Now  droops  thine  head,  and  fades  thy  bhishing  hue 
No  more  the  queen  of  flowers,  no  longer  gay. 

So  blooms  a  maid,  her  guardian's  health  and  joy, 
Her  mind  array'd  in  innocency's  vest; 

When  suddenly,  impalieut  to  destroy. 

Death  clasps  the  victim  to  his  iron  breast : 

She  fades — the  parent,  sister,  friend,  deplore 

The  charms  and  buddinsr  virtues  now  no  more. 


MRS.   CHARLOTTE   SMITH.  191 


MRS.  CHARLOTTE  SMITH, 

1749—1806, 

One  of  the  most  atlmired  of  our  female  poets,  is  also  a  noble  spe- 
cimen of  womanly  excellence.  She  was  the  daughter  of  Nicho- 
las Turner,  Esq.,  of  Stoke  House  in  Surrey,  where  she  was  born 
in  1479.  Deprived  of  her  mother  at  an  early  age,  she  was  in- 
duced in  her  fifteenth  year  to  marry  Mr.  Smith,  the  son  of  a  rich 
merchant :  the  bridegroom's  age  being  only  twenty-one.  Care- 
lessness and  extravagance  on  Mr.  Smith's  part,  and  the  death  of 
his  father,  whose  will  was  so  complicated  that  all  the  property 
was  swallowed  up  in  lawsuits,  reduced  the  unhappy  pair  to  great 
embarrassments.  The  husband  was  thrown  into  prison,  which 
the  wife  shared  with  him  :  and  it  was  while  labouring  under  these 
difficulties  that  Mrs.  Smith  turned  her  literary  talents  to  account. 
In  1782  she  published  a  volume  of  Sonnets,  which  was  favoura- 
bly received  by  the  public,  and  passed  through  no  fewer  than  ele- 
ven editions.  The  domestic  life  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Smith  becom- 
ing more  and  more  unhappy,  a  separation  at  length  took  place ; 
and  Mrs.  Smith  retired  to  a  cottage  near  Chichester,  where  she 
applied  herself  assiduously  and  cheerfully  to  literary  pursuits. 
She  here  produced  her  well-known  novels  of  Emmeline,  Ethc- 
lincle,  and  Cclestina,  and  various  other  works  in  prose  and  verse. 
She  died  at  Tilford,  near  Farnham,  in  1806. 

Mrs.  Smith's  poetry  is  at  once  forcible  and  elegant :  her  de- 
scriptions of  nature  are  peculiarly  true  and  pleasing:  and  her  sen- 
timents, altliough  somewhat  sombre  in  their  tone,  are  marked  by 
great  purity  of  thought,  and  clearness  of  expression.  Her  love 
of  flowers  is  exquisitely  developed. 


192  MRS.   CHARLOTTE   SMITH. 


SONNET. 


W7ilten  tit  the  close  of  Sjjritig. 

The  garlands  fade  that  Spring  so  lately  wove, 

Each  simple  flower,  which  she  had  nurs'd  in  dew, 
Anemonies,  that  spangled  every  grove. 

The  primrose  wan,  and  harebell  mildly  blue. 
No  more  shall  violets  linger  in  the  dell, 

Or  purple  orchis  variegate  the  plain. 
Till  Spring  again  shall  call  forth  every  bell, 

And  dress  with  humid  hands  her  wreaths  again. 
Ah,  poor  humanity  !  so  frail,  so  fair. 

Are  the  fond  visions  of  thy  early  day, 
Till  tyrant  passion  and  corrosive  care. 

Bid  all  thy  fairy  colours  fade  away  ! 
Another  May  new  buds  and  flowers  shall  bring; 
Ah  !  why  has  Happiness  no  second  Spring  ? 


SONNET. 


Sighing,  I  see  yon  little  troop  at  play. 
By  sorrow  yet  untouch'd,  unhurt  by  care, 

While  free  and  sportive  they  enjoy  to-day, 
Content,  and  careless  of  to-morrow's  fare. 

O  happy  age  !  when  Hope's  unclouded  ray 

Lights  their  green  path,  and  prompts  their  simple  mirth, 

Ere  yet  they  feel  the  thorns  that  lurking  lay 
To  wound  the  wretched  pilgrims  of  the  earth. 
Making  them  rue  the  hour  that  gave  them  birth, 

And  threw  them  on  a  world  so  full  of  pain. 

Where  prosperous  folly  treads  on  patient  worth, 

And  to  deaf  pride  misfortune  pleads  in  vain  ! 

Ah !  for  their  future  fate  how  many  fears 

Oppress  my  heart,  and  fill  mine  eyes  with  tears  ! 


MRS.  CHARLOTTE  SMITH.  193 


SONNET, 

The  Glow-worm. 


When,  on  some  balmy-breathing  night  of  Spring, 

The  happy  child,  to  whom  the  world  is  new, 
Pursues  the  evening  moth  of  mealy  wing, 

Or  from  the  heathbell  beats  the  sparkling  dew  ; 
He  sees  before  his  inexperienc'd  eyes 

The  brilliant  Glow-worm,  like  a  meteor,  shine 
On  the  turf  bank;  — amaz'd  and  pleas'd  he  cries, 

"  Star  of  the  dewy  grass,  I  make  thee  mine  !" 
Then,  ere  he  sleep,  collects  the  moisten'd  flower. 

And  bids  soft  leaves  his  glittering  prize  enfold, 
And  dreams  that  fairy  lamps  illume  his  bower  ; 

Yet  with  the  morning  shudders  to  behold 
His  lucid  treasure,  rayless  as  the  dust :  — 
So  turn  the  World's  bright  joys  to  cold  and  blank  disgust. 


SONNET. 

To  the  Moon. 

Queen  of  the  silver  bow  !  by  thy  pale  beam 

Alone  and  pensive,  I  delight  to  stray. 
And  watch  thy  shadow  trembling  in  the  stream, 

Or  mark  the  floating  clouds  that  cross  thy  way. 
And  while  I  gaze,  thy  mild  and  placid  light 

Sheds  a  soft  calm  upon  my  troubled  breast ; 
And  oft  I  think,  fair  planet  of  the  night. 

That  in  thy  orb  the  Avretched  may  have  rest : 
The  sufferers  of  the  earth  perhaps  may  go, 

Releas'd  by  death,  to  thy  benignant  sphere, 
And  the  sad  children  of  despair  and  woe 

Forget  in  thee  their  cup  of  sorrow  here. 
Oh,  that  I  soon  may  reach  thy  world  serene, 
Poor  wearied  pilgrim  in  this  toiling  scene! 
25  R 


194  MRS.   CHARLOTTE   SIMITH. 


SONNET. 
On  the  Departure  of  the  Nightingale. 

Sweet  poet  of  the  woods,  a  long  adieu  ! 

Farewell,  soft  minstrel  of  the  early  year! 
Ah  !  'twill  be  long  ere  thou  shalt  sing  anew, 

And  pour  thy  music  on  the  night's  dull  ear. 
Whether  on  Spring  thy  wandering  flights  aAvait, 

Or  whether  silent  in  our  groves  you  dwell, 
The  pensive  muse  shall  own  thee  for  her  mate, 

And  still  protect  the  song  she  loves  so  well. 
With  cautious  step  the  love-lorn  youth  shall  glide 

Through  the  lone  brake  that  shades  thy  mossy  nest ; 
And  shepherd  girls  from  eyes  profane  shall  hide 

The  gentle  bird,  who  sings  of  pity  best ; 
For  still  thy  voice  shall  soft  affections  move, 
And  still  be  dear  to  sorrow,  and  to  love ! 


SONNET. 

Should  the  lone  wanderer,  fainting  on  his  way, 

Rest  for  a  moment  of  the  sultry  hours. 
And,  though  his  path  through  thorns  and  roughness  lay. 

Pluck  the  wild  rose,  or  woodbine's  gadding  flowers, 
Weaving  gay  wreatlis  beneath  some  slieltering  tree. 

The  sense  of  sorrow  he  awhile  may  lose. 
So  have  I  sought  thy  flowers,  fair  Poesy  ! 

So  charm'd  my  way  Avilh  Friendship  and  the  Sluse. 
But  darker  now  grows  life's  unhappy  day. 

Dark  with  new  clouds  of  evil  yet  to  come, 
Her  pencil  sickening  Fancy  throws  away. 

And  weary  Hope  reclines  upon  the  tomb, 
And  points  my  wishes  to  that  tranquil  shore. 
Where  the  pale  spectre  Care  pursues  no  more. 


ANNA  SEWARD, 

1747—1809, 

The  daughter  of  the  Reverend  Thomas  Seward,  Canon  Residen- 
tiary of  Lichfield,  was  born  in  1747.  She  early  manifested  a 
remarkable  taste  for  poetry,  and  before  she  was  nine  years  old, 
she  could  repeat  the  three  first  books  of  Paradise  Lost.  Her 
father,  although  himself  a  poet,  endeavoured  to  repress  her 
passion  for  the  muse :  but  when  she  became  of  an  age  to  choose 
her  own  studies,  she  devoted  herself  to  poetical  composition.  In 
spite  of  a  somewhat  inflated  and  turgid  style,  Miss  Seward 
gained  a  large  share  of  public  favour;  we  find  that  the  was 
called  "  The  Swan  of  Lichfield :"  but  she  has  few  admirers  m 
the  present  day.  Sir  Walter  Scott,  to  whom  she  bequeathed 
three  volumes  of  poetry  for  publication,  pronounced  her  verses 

"  execrable." 

I  subjoin  some  varied  specimens  of  Miss  Seward's  powers. 

SONNET. 

December  Morning,  1782. 

I  love  to  rise  ere  gleams  the  tardy  light, 

Winter's  pale  dawn ;  and  as  warm  fires  illume 
And  cheerful  tapers  shine  around  the  room. 

Through  misty  windows  bend  thy  musing  sight. 

Where'' round  the  dusky  lawn,  the  mansions  white. 
With  shutters  clos'd,  peer  faintly  through  the  gloom, 
That  slow  recedes  ;  while  yon  grey  spires  assume. 

Rising  from  theii  dark  pile,  an  added  height 

By  indistinctness  given.     Then  to  decree 


196  ANNA   SEWARD. 


The  grateful  thoughts  to  God,  ere  they  unfold 
To  Friendship  or  the  Muse,  or  seek  with  glee 

Wisdom's  rich  page :  O  hours  !  more  worth  than  gold, 
By  whose  blest  use  we  lengthen  life,  and  free 

From  drear  decays  of  age,  outlive  the  old  ! 


TIME    PAST. 


Written,  January,  1773. 


Return,  blest  years  !  when  not  the  jocund  Spring, 
Luxuriant  Summer,  nor  the  amber  hours 
Calm  Autumn  gives,  my  heart  invok'd,  to  bring 
Joys,  whose  rich  balm  o'er  all  the  bosom  pours  ; 
When  ne'er  I  wished  might  grace  the  closing  day, 
One  tint  purpureal,  or  one  golden  ray  ; 
When  the  loud  storms,  that  desolate  the  bowers, 
Found  dearer  welcome  than  Favonian  gales, 
And  Winter's  bare,  bleak  fields,  than  Summer's  flowery  vale«. 

Yet  not  to  deck  pale  hours  with  vain  parade, 
Beneath  the  blaze  of  wide-illumin'd  dome  ; 
Not  for  the  bounding  dance  ;  not  to  pervade 
And  charm  the  sense  with  music;  nor  as  roam 
The  mimic  passions  o'er  theatric  scene. 
To  laugh,  or  weep  ;  O  !  not  for  these,  I  ween, 
But  for  delights  that  made  the  heart  their  home. 
Was  the  grey  night-frost  on  the  sounding  plain 
More  than  the  sun  invok'd,  that  gilds  the  grassy  lane. 

Yes,  for  the  joys  that  trivial  joys  excel. 

My  lov'd  Honora,  did  we  hail  the  gloom 

Of  dim  November's  eve ;  and,  as  it  fell, 

A.nd  the  bright  fire  shone  cheerful  round  the  room, 

Dropt  the  warm  curtains  with  no  tardy  hand. 


ANNA  SEWARD.  IST 


And  felt  our  spirits  and  our  hearts  expand  ; 
Listening  their  steps,  who  still,  where'er  they  come, 
Make  the  keen  stars,  that  glaze  the  settled  snows. 
More  than  the  sun  invok'd,  when  first  he  tints  the  rose. 

Affection  —  Friendship  —  Sympathy,—  your  throne 
Is  Winter's  glowing  hearth;  — and  ye  were  ours, 
Thy  smile,  Honora,  made  tliem  all  our  own. 
Where  are  they  now?  —alas  !  their  choicest  powers 
Faded  at  thy  retreat ;  —  for  thou  art  gone. 
And  many  a  dark,  long  eve  I  sigh  alone. 
In  thrill'd  remembrance  of  the  vanish'd  hours. 
When  storms  were  dearer  than  the  balmy  gales. 
And  the  grey  barren  fields  than  green  luxuriant  vales. 


SONG. 


From  thy  waves,  stormy  Lannow,  I  fly ; 

From  the  rocks  that  are  lash'd  by  their  tide  ; 
From  the  maid  whose  cold  bosom,  relentless  as  they, 

Has  wreck'd  my  warm  hopes  by  her  pride ! 
Yet  lonely  and  rude  as  the  scene. 

Her  smile  to  that  scene  could  impart 
A  charm  that  might  rival  the  bloom  of  the  vale  — 

But  away,  thou  fond  dream  of  my  heart ! 
From  thy  rocks,  stormy  Lannow,  I  fly  ! 

Now  the  blasts  of  the  winter  come  on  ! 

And  the  waters  grow  dark  as  they  rise ! 
But  'tis  well  !  —  they  resemble  the  sullen  disdain 

That  has  lour'd  in  those  insolent  eyes. 
Sincere  were  the  sighs  they  represt. 

But  they  rose  in  the  days  that  are  flown  ! 
Ah,  nymph  !  unrelenting  and  cold  as  thou  art, 

My  spirit  is  proud  as  thine  own  ! 

From  thy  rocks,  stormy  Lannow,  I  fly  1 

R* 


leS  ANNA   SEWARD. 


Lo  !  the  wings  of  the  sea-fowl  are  spread 

To  escape  the  loud  storm  by  their  flight  ; 
And  these  caves  will  afford  them  a  gloomy  retreat 

From  the  winds  and  the  billows  of  night : 
Like  them,  to  the  home  of  my  youth, 

Like  them, to  its  shades  I  retire  ; 
Receive  me,  and  shield  my  vext  spirit,  ye  groves, 

From  the  pangs  of  insulted  desire  ! 
To  thy  rocks,  stormy  Lannow,  adieu  ! 


THE    GRAVE   OF   YOUTH. 


When  life  is  hurried  to  untimely  close, 

In  the  years  of  crystal  eyes  and  burnish'd  hair, 

Dire  are  the  thoughts  of  death  ;  eternal  parting 

From  all  the  precious  soul's  yet  known  delights. 

All  she  had  clung  to  here  ;  from  youth  and  hope, 

And  the  year's  blossom'd  April ;  bounding  strength, 

AVhich  had  outleap'd  the  rose,  when  morning  suns 

Yellow'd  their  forest  glade  ;  from  reaper's  shout 

And  cheerful  swarm  of  populous  towns  ;  from  Time, 

Which  tells  of  joys  forepast,  and  promises 

The  dear  return  of  seasons,  and  the  bliss 

Crowning  a  fruitful  marriage  ;  from  the  stores 

Of  well-engrafted  knowledge  ;  from  all  utterance, 

Since  in  the  silent  grave,  no  talk  !  no  music  ! 

No  gay  surprise,  by  unexpected  good, 

Social,  or  individual !  —  no  glad  step 

Of  welcome  friend,  with  more  intenseness  listen'd 

Than  warbled  melody  !  no  father's  counsel  ! 

No  mother's  smile  !  no  lover's  whisper'd  vow  ! 

There  nothing  breathes  save  the  insatiate  worm. 

And  nothing  is,  but  the  drear  altering  corse. 

Resolving  silentl)^  to  shaptdcss  dust. 

In  unpierc'd  darkness  and  in  black  oblivion. 


MISS  SCOTT.  1^9 


MISS  SCOTT  (of  Ancram). 

In  the  third  volume  of  Ellis's  Specimens  of  the  Early  English 
Poets,  are  two  poems  by  Miss  Scott,  of  Ancram.  The  following 
is  one  of  them. 

THE    OWL. 

While  the  Moon,  with  sudden  gleam, 
Through  the  clouds  that  cover  her, 
Darts  her  light  upon  the  stream, 
And  the  poplars  gently  stir, 

Pleas'd  I  hear  thy  boding  cry  ! 
Owl,  that  lov'st  the  cloudy  sky, 
Sure,  thy  notes  are  harmony  ! 

While  the  maiden,  pale  with  care, 

Wanders  to  the  lonely  shade, 
Sighs  her  sorrows  to  the  air. 

While  the  flowerets  round  her  fade. 
Shrinks  to  hear  thy  boding  cry  ! 
Owl,  that  lov'st  the  cloudy  sky. 
To  her  it  is  not  harmony  1 

While  the  wretch,  with  mournful  dole. 

Wrings  his  hands  in  agony. 
Praying  for  his  brother's  soul. 
Whom  he  pierced  suddenly. 
Shrinks  to  hear  thy  boding  cry. 
Owl  that  lov'st  the  cloudy  sky, 
To  him  it  is  not  harmony. 


200  MRS.  MARY  TIGHE. 


MRS.  MARY  TIGHE. 
1773—18]  0. 

This  highly  gifted  lady  was  the  daughter  of  the  Rev.  William 
Blachford,  of  the  county  of  Wicklow,  where  she  was  born  in  or 
about  the  year  1773.  She  is  chiefly  known  by  her  splendid 
poem  of  Psyche,  which  for  gorgeousness  of  colouring  and  refine- 
ment of  imagination,  is  scarcely  behind  the  best  verses  of  Moore, 
while  it  is  certainly  more  chaste  and  spiritual  in  its  sentiment. 
Mrs.  Tighe  died  in  1810. 

FROM    PSYCHE. 

(Canto  II.) 

Psyche's  return  to  the  Palace  of  Love. -^  Her  disobedknre. —  Love  asleep. —  Psyche's 
amazement. —  The  flight  of  Love. —  Sudden  banishment  of  Psyche  from  the 
Island  of  Pleasure, 

Illumin'd  bright  now  shines  the  splendid  dome, 
Melodious  accents  her  arrival  hail : 
But  not  the  torch's  blaze  can  chase  the  gloom, 
And  ail  the  soothing  powers  of  music  fail ; 
Trembling  she  seeks  her  couch  with  horror  pale. 
But  first  a  lamp  conceals  in  secret  shade, 
While  unknown  terrors  all  her  soul  assail. 
Thus  half  their  treacherous  counsel  is  obey'd. 
For  still  her  gentle  soul  abhors  the  murderous  blade. 

And  now  with  softest  whispers  of  delight. 
Love  welcomes  Psyche  still  more  fondly  dear ; 
Not  unobserv'd,  though  hid  in  deepest  night, 
The  silent  an<ruish  of  her  secret  fear. 


MRS.   MARY  TIGHE.  201 


He  thinks  that  tenderness  excites  tlie  tear 
By  the  late  image  of  her  parent's  grief, 
And  half-offended  seeks  in  vain  to  cheer: 
Yet  while  he  speaks,  her  sorrows  feel  relief. 
Too  soon  more  keen  to  sting  from  this  suspension  brief! 

AUow'd  to  settle  on  celestial  eyes. 
Soft  Sleep  exulting  now  exerts  his  sway, 
From  Psyche's  anxious  pillow  gladly  flies 
To  veil  those  orbs,  whose  fierce  and  lambent  ray 
The  powers  of  heaven  submissively  obey. 
Trembling  and  breathless  then  she  softly  rose, 
And  seiz'd  the  lamp,  where  it  obscurely  lay, 
With  hand  too  rashly  daring  to  disclose 
The  sacred  veil  which  hung  mysterious  o'er  her  woes. 

Twice,  as  with  agitated  step  she  went. 
The  lamp  expiring  shone  with  doubtful  gleam, 
As  though  it  warn'd  her  from  her  rash  intent: 
And  twice  she  paus'd,  and  on  its  trembling  beam 
Gaz'd  with  suspended  breath,  while  voices  seem 
With  murmuring  sound  along  the  roof  to  sigh  ; 
As  one  just  waking  from  a  troublous  dream, 
With  palpitating  heart  and  straining  eye. 
Still  fix'd  with  fear  remains,  still  thinks  the  danger  nigh. 

O  daring  Muse  !  wilt  thou  indeed  essay 
To  paint  the  wonders  which  that  lamp  could  shew? 
And  canst  thou  hope  in  living  words  to  say 
The  dazzling  glories  of  that  heavenly  view  1 
Ah  !  well  I  ween,  that  if  with  pencil  true 
That  splendid  vision  could  be  well  exprest, 
The  fearful  awe  imprudent  Psyche  knew 
Would  seize  with  rapture  every  wondering  breast, 
When  Love's  all-potent  charms  divinely  stood  confest. 

All  imperceptible  to  human  touch. 
His  wings  display  celestial  essence  light, 
26 


202  MRS.   MARY   TIGHE. 


The  clear  effulgence  of  the  blaze  is  such, 
The  brilliant  plumage  shines  so  heavenly  bright. 
That  mortal  eyes  turn  dazzled  from  the  sight : 
A  youth  he  seems  in  manhood's  freshest  years  ; 
Round  his  fair  neck,  as  clinging  with  delight. 
Each  golden  curl  resplendently  appears, 
Or  shades  his  darker  brow,  which  grace  majestic  wears 

Or  o'er  his  guileless  front  the  ringlets  bright 
Their  rays  of  sunny  lustre  seem  to  throw. 
That  front  than  polish'd  ivory  more  white ! 
His  blooming  cheeks  with  deeper  blushes  glow 
Than  roses  scatter'd  o'er  a  bed  of  snow  : 
While  on  his  lips,  distill'd  in  balmy  dews, 
(Those  lips  divine,  that  even  in  silence  know 
The  heart  to  touch,)  persuasion  to  infuse, 
Still  hangs  a  rosy  charm  that  never  vainly  sues. 

The  friendly  curtain  of  indulgent  sleep, 
Disclos'd  not  yet  his  eyes'  resistless  sway. 
But  from  their  silky  veil  tJiere  seemed  to  peep 
Some  brilliant  glances  with  a  soften'd  ray, 
Which  o'er  his  features  exquisitely  play, 
And  all  his  polish'd  limbs  suffuse  with  light. 
Thus  through  some  narrow  space  the  azure  day 
Sudden  its  cheerful  rays  diffusing  bright, 
Wide  darts  its  lucid  beams,  to  gild  the  brow  of  night. 

His  fatal  arrows,  and  celestial  bow 
Beside  the  couch  were  negligently  thrown. 
Nor  needs  the  god  his  dazzling  arms  to  show 
His  glorious  birth,  such  beauty  round  him  shone 
As  sure  could  spring  from  Beauty's  self  alone  ; 
The  gloom  which  glow'd  o'er  all  of  soft  desire 
Could  well  proclaim  him  Beauty's  cherish'd  son : 
And  Beauty's  self  will  oft  these  charms  admire, 
And  steal  his  witching  smile,  his  glance's  living  fire. 


MRS.   MARY   TIGHE.  203 


Speechless  with  awe,  in  transport  strangely  lost, 
Long  Psyche  stood  with  fix'd  adoring  eye  : 
Her  limbs  immovable,  her  senses  tost 
Between  amazement,  fear  and  ecstasy, 
She  hangs  enamour'd  o'er  the  deity. 
Till  from  her  trembling  hand  extinguish'd  falls 
The  fatal  lamp  —  he  starts  —  and  suddenly 
Tremendous  thunders  echo  through  the  halls, 
While  ruin's  hideous  crash  bursts  o'er  the  affrighted  walls. 

Dread  horror  seizes  on  her  sinking  heart, 
A  mortal  chillness  shudders  at  her  breast, 
Her  soul  sinks  fainting  from  death's  icy  dart. 
The  groan  scarce  utter'd  dies  but  half  exprest. 
And  down  she  sinks  in  deadly  swoon  opprest: 
But  when  at  length  awaking  from  her  trance, 
The  terrors  of  her  fate  stand  all  confest. 
In  vain  she  casts  around  her  timid  glance, 
The  rudely  frowning  scenes  her  former  joys  enhance. 

No  traces  of  those  joys,  alas,  remain  ! 
A  desert  solitude  alone  appears  : 
No  verdant  shade  relieves  the  sandy  plain. 
The  wide-spread  waste  no  gentle  fountain  cheers, 
One  barren  face  the  dreary  prospect  wears ; 
Nought  through  the  vast  horizon  meets  her  eye 
To  calm  the  dismal  tumult  of  her  fears. 
No  trace  of  human  habitation  nigh, 
A  sandy  wild  beneath,  above  a  threatening  sky. 

Beautiful,  however,  as  is  this  poem  of  Psyche,  I  am  not  sure 
that  Mrs.  Tighe  is  not  more  snccessfid  when  she  is  less  ambi- 
tious. The  following  verses  give  a  good  specimen  of  her  more 
simple  style : 

THE    LILY. 

How  wither'd,  perish'd,  seems  the  form 
Of  yon  obscure  unsightly  root ! 


204  MRS.   MARY   TIGHE. 


Yet  from  the  blight  of  wintry  storm, 
It  hides  secure  the  precious  fruit. 

The  careless  eye  can  find  no  grace, 

No  beauty  in  the  scaly  folds, 
Nor  see  within  the  dark  embrace 

What  latent  loveliness  it  holds. 

Yet  in  that  bulb,  those  sapless  scales, 

The  lily  wraps  her  silver  vest. 
Till  vernal  suns  and  vernal  gales 

Shall  kiss  once  more  her  fragrant  breast. 

Yes,  hide  beneath  the  mouldering  heap 

The  undelighting  slighted  thing  ; 
There  in  the  cold  earth  buried  deep, 

In  silence  let  it  wait  the  Spring. 

Oh  !  many  a  stormy  night  shall  close 

In  gloom  upon  the  barren  earth. 
While  still  in  undisturb'd  repose, 

Uninjur'd  lies  the  future  birth  ; 

And  Ignorance,  with  sceptic  eye, 

Hope's  patient  smile  shall  wondering  view ; 
Or  mock  her  fond  credulity, 

As  her  soft  tears  the  spot  bedew. 

Sweet  smile  of  hope,  delicious  tear. 

The  sun,  the  shower  indeed  shall  come ; 

The  promis'd  verdant  shoot  appear. 
And  nature  bid  her  blossoms  bloom. 

And  thou,  O  virgin  Queen  of  Spring  ! 

Shalt  from  thy  dark  and  lowly  bed. 
Bursting  thy  green  shealh's  silken  string. 

Unveil  thy  charms,  and  perfume  shed  ; 


MRS.   MARY  TIGHE.  205 


Unfold  thy  robes  of  purest  white, 

Unsullied  from  their  darksome  grave. 

And  thy  soft  petals'  flowery  light 
In  the  mild  breeze  unfetter'd  wave. 

So  Faith  shall  seek  the  lowly  dust, 
"Where  humble  Sorrow  loves  to  lie, 

And  bid  her  thus  her  hopes  entrust. 
And  watch  with  patient  cheerful  eye  ; 

And  bear  the  long,  cold,  wintry  night. 

And  bear  her  own  degraded  doom. 
And  wait  till  Heaven's  reviving  light, 

Eternal  Spring !  shall  burst  the  gloom. 


206  5IISSES  MARIA   AND   HARRIET  FALCONAR. 


MISSES  MARIA  AND  HARRIET  FALCONAR. 

1788. 

These  two  ladies  are  remarkable  specimens  of  precocious 
genius.  Maria  Falconar  was  but  seventeen  years  of  age,  and 
Harriet  but  fourteen,  when  (in  1788)  they  gave  to  the  world  their 
Poems  on  Slavery.  The  works  are  very  pleasing  and  charac- 
teristic specimens  of  fiemale  talent,  and  are  written  with  a  strength 
of  moral  tone  which  is  surprising  in  such  youthful  minds. 

FROM    MARIA    FALCONAR  S    POEM. 

Once  Superstition,  in  a  fatal  hour, 

O'er  Europe  rais'd  the  sceptre  of  her  power ; 

She  reign'd  triumphant  minister  of  death, 

And  Peace  and  Pleasure  faded  in  her  breath ; 

Deep  in  monastic  solitude  entomb  d, 

The  bud  of  beauty  wither'd  ere  it  bloom'd  ; 

The  brilliant  eye  where  love  had  sought  to  dwell. 

Shed  all  its  lustre  o'er  the  cloisler'd  cell ; 

The  smiling  lip,  of  bright  vermillion  dye, 

Grew  pale,  and  quiver'd  with  the  passing  sigh ; 

The  music  floating  from  each  tuneful  tongue. 

With  midnight  hymns  the  Gothic  arches  rung. 

Here,  through  Reflection's  eye,  the  pensive  mind 

Sought  with  regret  for  objects  far  behind  ; 

And  found  Remembrance,  as  she  heav'd  a  sigh, 

Drew  back  the  soul  just  soaring  to  the  sky  ; 

Save  where  misguided  zeal  in  peace  withdrew. 

From  each  bright  pleasure,  each  enchanting  view. 


MISSES  MARIA   AND   HARRIET   FALCONAR.  207 


The  still  retreat  pale  Melancholy  sought. 

And  found  each  object  suited  to  her  thought; 

Soft  Sensibility  might  here  deplore. 

And  feel  the  shaft  of  falsehood  wound  no  more ; 

The  sport  of  fortune,  long  to  comfort  lost, 

With  hope  far  banish'd,  expectation  cross'd ; 

Explor'd  these  scenes  to  weep  for  anguish  past, 

Where  the  swell'd  throbbing  heart  has  burst  at  last. 

The  Eternal  from  the  throne  of  grace  survey'd, 

With  eye  averse,  the  sacrifice  they  made ; 

No  forc'd  devotion  found  acceptance  there,. 

No  grateful  incense  issu'd  from  her  prayer. 

Thus  Superstition  could  not  fix  her  sway 

In  heaven,  but  look'd  on  earth  to  seize  her  prey ; 

And  yet,  unsated  with  domestic  pain. 

Sought  to  extend  the  terrors  of  her  reign. 

She  saw,  as  on  the  fatal  height  she  stood, 

Her  impious  altars  drench'd  in  guiltless  blood; 

^Vhere  Fortitude    with  candid  virtue  join'd, 

And  sought  by  sacred  truths  to  save  mankind  ; 

There  she  bestow'd  her  persecutions  dire. 

And  close  pursu'd  with  unrelenting  ire ; 

Nor  ceas'd  to  scourge  them  with  her  vengeful  rod, 

Till  each,  a  martyr  saint,  em  brae' d  his  god. 

The  younger  of  the  two  sisters  displays,  I  think,  the  superior 
genius.  Her  feeling  is  stronger ;  her  declamation  more  warm 
and  eloquent.  The  following  is  an  extraordinary  passage  for  a 
girl  of  fourteen  :  — 

The  British  youth,  torn  from  his  much  lov'd  home, 

O'er  foreign  seas  and  foreign  coasts  to  roam, 

Amid  the  fury  of  the  piercing  blast, 

The  swell'd  wave  circling  round  the  shiver'd  mast, 

While  bursting  peals  of  thunder  rend  the  skies. 

And  o'er  the  deck,  the  foaming  billows  rise, 

Awhile  in  terror  views  the  liurhtninff  fflare 

With  streaming  horror,  through  tlie  midnight  air: 


—  The  storm  once  past,  he  gains  the  friendly  ray 

Of  Hope,  to  guide  him  through  the  dangerous  way ; 

Smiling,  she  bids  each  future  prospect  rise, 

Through  Fancy's  varied  mirror,  to  his  eyes. 

Not  so  the  slave :   oppress'd  with  secret  care, 

He  sinks  the  hapless  victim  of  despair ; 

Or  doom'd  to  torments  tlial  might  even  move 

The  steely  heart,  and  melt  it  into  love  ; 

Till,  worn  with  anguish,  withering  in  his  bloom, 

He  falls,  an  early  tenant  of  the  tomb ! 

Shall  Britain  view,  iinmov'd,  sad  Afric's  shore 
Delug'd  so  oft  in  streams  of  purple  gore  ! 
Britain,  where  science,  peace,  and  plenty  srnile. 
Virtue's  bright  seat,  and  freedom's  favour'd  isle  ! 
Rich  are  her  plains  and  fruitful  is  her  clime, 
The  scourge  of  tyrants,  and  the  boast  of  time  ; 
Of  every  virtue,  every  worth  possest. 
That  fires  the  hero's  or  the  patriot's  breast : 
There,  nobly  warm'd  with  animating  fire. 
Our  Shakspere  struck  his  soul-commanding  lyre; 
There  scenes  of  bliss  immortal  Milton  sung. 
And  notes  harmonious  issued  from  his  tongue : 
And  bards  like  these  shall  boast  in  every  age, 
While  native  genius  glows  in  Hayley's  page  ; 
While  genius  bids,  to  our  enchanted  eyes. 
In  Swift's  own  strains,  a  second  Pope  arise. 
When  Truth,  perplex'd  in  error's  thorny  maze. 
Threw  o'er  the  world  obseur'd  and  darken'd  rays. 
Then  Newton  rose,  unveil'd  the  beauteous  maid  : 
He  spoke,  and  nature  stood  at  once  display'd. 
These  were  the  souls  that  Britain  once  possess'd, 
When  genuine  virtue  fir'd  the  patriot's  breast ; 
And  still  shall  she  protect  fair  freedom's  cause, 
And  vindicate  her  violated  laws  ; 
Waft  peace  and  freedom  to  a  wretched  land, 
And  scatter  blessings  with  a  liberal  hand. 


^ 


ELIZABETH  TREFUSIS.  209 


ELIZABETH  TREFUSIS, 

1808,  ' 

Sister  of  the  late  Lord  Clinton,  published  in  1808  two  volumes 
of  Poems  and  Tales,  from  which  the  following  verses  are  ex- 
tracted. 

THE    BOY    AND   BUTTERFLY. 

Proud  of  its  little  day,  enjoying 

The  lavish  sweets  kind  nature  yields. 
In  harmless  sports  each  hour  employing. 
Ranging  the  gardens,  woods,  and  fields, 
A  lovely  butterfly  extending 

Its  grateful  wing  to  Sol's  Avarm  beams, 
No  dreaded  danger  saw  impending, 

But  basked  secure  in  peaceful  dreams. 
A  wandering  urchin  view'd  this  treasure 

Of  gaudy  colours  fine  and  gay  ; 
Thoughtless,  consulting  but  his  pleasure, 
He  chas'd  it  through  the  livelong  day. 
At  last  the  young  but  sly  dissembler 

Appear'd  to  follow  other  flies, 
Then  turning,  seiz'd  the  little  trembler, 

Who,  crush'd  beneath  his  fingers,  dies ! 
Surpris'd,  he  sees  the  hasty  ruin 

His  reckless  cruelty  had  wrought ; 
The  victim  (which,  so  long  pursuing. 

Scarce  raised  a  wish  or  claimed  a  thought,) 
Now  bids  the  tears  of  genuine  sorrow 
O'er  his  repentant  bosom  flow  ! 
27  s* 


210  ELIZABETH   TREFUSIS. 


Yet  —  he  '11  forget  it  ere  the  morrow, 
And  deal  to  others  equal  woe  !  — 

Thus  the  vain  man,  with  subtle  feigning, 
Pursues,  o'ertakes  poor  woman's  heart ; 

But  soon  his  hapless  prize  disdaining. 
She  dies  !  —  the  victim  of  his  art. 


In  a  novel  which  the  authoress  destroyed,  occurs  the  Poem  now 
about  to  be  quoted  ;  the  following  is  the  explanation  which  Miss 
Trefusis  prefixes  to  the  verses  :  — 

[At  the  death  of  her  child,  and  fifteen  months  after  her  marriage  with 
Edmond,  the  unfortunate  Eudora  discovers  that  he  is  still  tenderly  attached 
to  her  rival  Enna,  and  that  she  is  herself  the  only  obstacle  to  their  happi- 
ness.  Full  of  love  and  grief,  she  determines  to  remove  that  obstacle  by  sui- 
cide.] 

eudora's  lamentation  over  her  dead  chile. 

I. 

Make  it  wide,  make  it  deep,  and  with  moss  be  it  lin'd, 

His  delicate  limbs  no  rude  pebbles  shall  wound  ; 
My  babe  with  its  mother  in  death  shall  be  join'd  ! 
Then  the  lord  of  my  wishes,  no  longer  unkind. 
May  shed  a  fond  tear  on  the  grief-hallow'd  ground. 
Lay  it  close  by  my  side, 
Lay  it  close  by  my  side, 
'T  is  the  child  of  my  Edmond  ?  and  I  —  was  his  bride. 

II. 

Who  says  that  I  murder'd  the  peace  of  my  love. 

That  his  heart  was  another's,  his  hand  only  mine? 
Hush,  hush  !  't  is  not  true  !  —  her  affection  to  prove, 
His  Eudora  each  obstacle  soon  will  remove; 
Content  for  his  sake  every  bliss  to  resign. 
With  my  babe  on  my  breast. 
With  my  babe  on  my  breast. 
My  heart's  lord  shall  be  happy  !  and  I  —  be  at  rest ! 


in. 

Then  if,  hand  lock'd  in  hand,  o'er  my  grave  they  should  stray, 

And  vanity  smile  o'er  the  ruins  of  love, 
Yet  let  justice  and  pity  instruct  them  to  say, 
"  She  merited  better,  but  fate  had  its  way  : 
And  now  her  pure  spirit  is  soarins^  above  I 
With  her  babe  on  her  breast. 
With  her  babe  on  her  breast, 
Now  earth  shrinks  from  her  view,  and  the  mourner  's  at  rest." 


212  MISS  JANE   ELLIOT. 


MISS  JANE   ELLIOT, 

Sister  to  Sir  Gilbert  Elliot,  of  Minto,  was  the  author  of  the 
much-admired  ballad  which  is  subjoined:  "in  which,"  says  Sir 
Walter  Scott,  in  the  Minstrelsy  of  the  Scottish  Border,  "  the 
manner  of  the  ancient  minstrels  is  so  happily  imitated,  that  it 
required  the  most  positive  evidence  to  convince  me  that  the  song 
was  of  modern  date." 


THE    FLOWERS    OF    THE    FOREST. 

I  've  heard  the  lilting  at  our  yowe-milking. 

Lasses  a'  lilting  before  the  dawn  of  day  ; 
But  now  they  are  moaning  on  ilka  green  loaning  — 

The  Flowers  of  the  Forest  are  a'  wede  away. 

At  buchts,  in  the  morning,  nae  blythe  lads  are  scorning, 
The  lasses  are  lonely  and  dowie  and  wae ; 

Nae  daffin',  nae  gabbin',  but  sighing  and  sabbing, 
Ilk  ane  lifts  her  leglen  and  hies  her  away. 

In  hairst,  at  the  shearing,  nae  youths  now  are  jeering, 
The  bandsters  are  lyart,  and  runkled,  and  gray ; 

At  fair,  or  at  preaching,  nae  wooing,  nae  fleeching  — 
The  Flowers  of  the  Forest  are  a'  wede  away. 

At  e'en,  at  the  gloaming,  nae  swankies  are  roaming, 
*Bout  stacks  wi'  the  lasses  at  bogle  to  play. 

But  ilk  ane  sits  drearie,  lamenting  her  dearie  — 
The  Flowers  of  the  Forest  are  a'  wede  away 


MISS  JANE  ELLIOT.  213 


Dule  and  wae  for  the  order,  sent  our  lads  to  the  Border ! 

The  English,  for  ance,  by  guile  wan  the  day ; 
The  Flowers  of  the  Forest,  that  foucht  aye  the  foremost, 

The  prime  o'  our  land,  are  cauld  in  the  clay. 

We  hear  nae  mair  lilting  at  our  yowe-milking, 
Women  and  bairns  are  heartless  and  wae  ; 

Sighing  and  moaning  on  ilka  green  loaning, — 
The  Flowers  of  the  Forest  are  a'  wcde  away. 


214  MRS.  ALICIA  COCKBURN, 


MRS.  ALICIA  COCKBURN. 

1794. 

Alicia  Rutherford  of  Fernilie,  North  Britain,  who  became  the 
wife  of  Mr.  Patrick  Cockburn,  advocate,  belonging  to  the  Scotch 
bar,  was  the  author  of  the  following  ballad,  called  The  Flowers 
of  the  Forest  —  Part  Second.  I  am  not  aware  what  else  she 
wrote.     She  died  in  Edinburgh,  in  1794. 

THE    FLOWERS    OF    THE    FOREST. 

I  've  seen  the  smiling 

Of  Fortune  beguiling; 
I've  felt  all  its  favours,  and  found  its  decay ; 

Sweet  was  its  blessing, 

Kind  its  caressing ; 
But  now  it  is  fled —  it  is  fled  far  away. 

I  've  seen  the  Forest 

Adorned  the  foremost 
With  flowers  of  the  fairest  most  pleasant  and  gay ; 

Sae  bonnie  was  their  blooming ! 

Their  scent  the  air  perfuming  ! 
But  now  they  are  wither'd  and  wedcd  away. 

I  've  seen  the  morning 

With  gold  the  hills  adorning. 
And  loud  tempest  storming  before  the  mid-day. 

I  've  seen  Tweed's  silver  streams 

Shining  in  the  sunny  beams, 
Grow  drumly  and  dark  as  he  rowed  on  his  way. 


MRS.   ALICIA   COCKBURN.  215 

Oh,  fickle  Fortune, 

Why  this  cruel  sporting  ? 
Oh,  why  still  perplex  us,  poor  sons  of  a  day? 

Nae  mair  your  smiles  can  cheer  me, 

Nae  mair  your  frowns  can  fear  me ; 
For  the  Flowers  of  the  Forest  are  a'  wede  away. 


It  is  generally  understood  that  this  pleasing  ballad  refers  to  the 
battle  of  Flodden  Field.  Another  copy  of  verses  on  this  subject 
was  written  by  Miss  Jane  Elliot,  sister  to  Sir  Gilbert  Elliot  of 
Minto,  whose  composition  will  be  found  at  page  212. 


216  HANNAH  COWLEY. 


HANNAH    COWLEY, 

1743—1809, 

Was  born  at  Tiverton,  in  Devonshire,  in  the  year  1743.  She 
was  the  daughter  of  Mr.  Philip  Parlvhouse,  a  bookseller  of  emi- 
nence in  that  town  ;  and,  being  well  instructed,  gave  early  signs 
of  genius.  She  is  chiefly  known  as  the  author  of  some  very 
clever  plays,  among  which  is  the  extremely  amusing  and  effective 
comedy  of  The  Belle's  Stratagem.  She  wrote,  however,  some 
miscellaneous  poems  which  met  with  very  considerable  success 
at  the  time  of  their  publication,  and  are  even  yet  much  esteemed. 
Amongst  them  may  be  named  The  Maid  of  Arragon,  a  poem  in 
blank  verse ;  The  Siege  of  Acre ;  and  Edwina,  the  Huntress. 
She  was  married  in  1768  to  Mr.  Cowley,  an  officer  in  the  service 
of  the  East  India  Company,  between  whom  and  herself  the 
warmest  attachment  ever  subsisted.     She  died  in  1809. 

The  following  poem  will  give  a  good  idea  of  her  powers  :  — 

ON    THE    DEATH    OF    CHATTERTON. 

Ill-fated  Chatterton  !  for  thee  I  raise 

A  mingled  ray  of  censure  and  of  praise  ! 

Bright  star  of  Genius  !  torn  from  life  and  fame. 

My  tears,  my  verse,  shall  consecrate  thy  name ! 

Ye  Muses  !   who  around  his  natal  bed 

Bestowed  your  gifts,  and  all  your  influence  shed ; 

Apollo  !  that  didst  fire  his  infant  breast, 

And  in  his  genuine  numbers  shine  confest. 

Ah,  why  on  him  such  sensate  nerves  bestow 

To  heighten  torture  to  the  child  of  woe  ! 


HANNAH   COWLEY.  217 


Thou  haggard  Poverty  !  whose  cheerless  eye 
Makes  note  of  Rapture  change  to  deepest  sigh, 
Subdued  by  thee  his  pen  no  more  obeys, 
No  more  revives  the  song  of  ancient  days, 
Check'd  in  his  flight,  his  lofty  genius  cowers. 
Locks  her  faint  wings,  and  yields  to  thee  her  powers  ! 

Behold  him,  Muses  !  see  your  favourite  son. 

The  prey  of  want  ere  manhood  is  begun  ; 

The  heart  which  you  inspired  by  anguish  torn, 

The  mind  you  cherish'd,  drooping  and  forlorn  ! 

See  now  !  Despair  her  sable  form  extends. 

Creeps  to  his  couch,  and  o'er  his  pillow  bends ! 

Ah,  see  !  a  deadly  bowl,  till  now  conceal'd. 

Before  his  eyes  is  gradually  reveal'd  ; 

Some  spirit  seize  it !  seize  the  liquid  snare. 

Cast  it  to  earth,  or  dissipate  in  air  — 

Stay,  hapless  youth  !  refrain,  abhor  the  draught, 

With  racking  pangs,  with  deep  Repentance  fraught ! 

Oh,  hold  !  the  cup  with  woe  eternal  flows. 

More,  more  than  Death  !  the  poisonous  juice  bestows. 

In  vain  !  — he  drinks  I  see  how  the  scorching  fires 
Rush  through  his  veins  !  see,  writhing,  he  expires  ! 
No  sorrowing  friend,  no  sister,  parent  nigh. 
To  soothe  his  pangs,  or  catch  his  parting  sigh. 
Alone,  unknown,  the  Muses'  favourite  dies, 
And  with  the  vulgar  dead,  unnoted  lies  ! 

Bright  star  of  Genius  !  torn  from  Life  and  Fame, 
My  tears,  my  verse,  shall  consecrate  thy  name  ! 


28 


218  ISABELLA.  COUNTESS   OF   CARLISLE. 


ISABELLA,  COUNTESS  OF  CARLISLE, 

1795, 

Was  the  author  of  the  following  lines.     She  died  in  1795. 

THE    fairy's    answer. 

To  Mrs.  Greville's  Prayer  for  Indifference* 

Without  preamble,  to  my  friend 
These  hasty  lines  I  'm  bid  to  send, 

Or  give,  if  I  am  able  : 
I  dare  not  hesitate  to  say. 
Though  I  have  trembled  all  the  day  — 

It  looks  so  like  a  fable. 

Last  night's  adventure  is  my  theme  ; 
And  should  it  strike  you  as  a  drearn. 

Yet  soon  its  high  import 
Must  make  you  own  the  matter  such, 
So  delicate,  it  Avere  too  much 

To  be  composed  in  sport. 

The  moon  did  shine  serenely  bright, 
And  every  star  did  deck  the  night, 

While  zephyr  fann'd  the  trees  ; 
No  more  assail'd  my  mind's  repose. 
Save  that  yon  stream,  which  murmuring  flows. 

Did  echo  to  the  breeze. 

•  Vide  p.  158. 


Enwrapt  in  solemn  thoughts  I  sate, 
Resolving  o'er  the  turns  of  fate, 

Yet  void  of  hope  or  fear  ; 
When  lo  !  behold  an  airy  throng, 
With  lightest  steps  and  jocund  song, 
Surprised  my  eye  and  ear. 

A  form  superior  to  the  rest 
His  little  voice  to  me  address'd. 

And  gently  thus  began  : 
"  I  've  heard  strange  things  from  one  of  you, 
"Pray  tell  me  if  you  think  'tis  true  ; 

"Explain  it,  if  you  can. 

"  Such  incense  has  perfum'd  my  throne  I 
"  Such  eloquence  my  heart  has  won! 

"  I  think  I  guess  the  hand : 
"  I  know  her  wit  and  beauty  too, 
"  But  why  she  sends  a  prayer  so  new, 

"  I  cannot  understand. 

"  To  light  some  flames,  and  some  revive, 
"To  keep  some  other  just  alive, 

"Full  oft  I  am  implor'd; 
"  But  with  peculiar  power  to  please, 
"  To  supplicate  for  nought  but  ease  ! 

"  'T  is  odd,  upon  my  word  ! 

"  Tell  her,  with  fruitless  care  I've  sought: 

"  And  though  my  realms,  with  wonders  fraught, 

"  In  remedies  abound, 
"  No  grain  of  cold  Indifference 
"  Was  ever  yet  allied  to  sense 

"  In  all  my  fairy  round. 

"  The  regions  of  the  sky  I  'd  trace, 
"  I  'd  ransack  every  earthly  place, 
"  Each  leaf,  each  herb,  each  flower, 


220  ISABELLA,   COUNTESS  OF  CARLISLE. 


"  To  mitigate  the  pangs  of  fear, 
"  Dispel  the  clouds  of  black  despair, 
"  Or  lull  the  restless  hour. 

"  I  would  be  generous  as  I  'm  just ; 
*'  But  I  obey,  as  others  must, 

"  Those  laws  which  fate  has  made. 
"  My  tiny  kingdom  how  defend, 
"  And  what  might  be  the  horrid  end, 

"  Should  man  my  state  invade  ? 

"  'T  would  put  your  mind  into  a  rage, 
"  And  such  unequal  war  to  wage, 

"  Suits  not  my  royal  duty  ! 
"  I  dare  not  change  a  first  decree  ; 
"  She  's  doom'd  to  please,  nor  can  be  free, 

"Such  is  the  lot  of  Beauty  !  " 

This  said,  he  darted  o'er  the  plain, 
And  after  follow'd  all  his  train  ; 

No  glimpse  of  him  I  find  : 
Put  sure  I  am,  the  little  sprite 
These  words,  before  he  took  his  flight, 

Imprinted  on  my  mind. 


MRS.   LEICESTER.  221 


MRS.  LEICESTER. 

About  1800. 

Of  this  lady  I  know  no  more  than  this  :  — that  I  occasionally 
meet  with  her  name  attached  to  litde  lively  productions  like  the 
following.  The  female  muse  seems  particularly  happy  in  the  in- 
vention of  stories  to  illustrate  a  sentiment  or  to  point  a  moral : 
and  the  subjoined  lines  appear  to  me  to  be  a  good  specimen  of  this 
facility. 

THE    MOCK    HERO. 

Horatio,  of  idle  courage  vain, 

Was  flourishing  in  air  his  fi^ther's  cane  : 

And  as  the  fumes  of  valour  swell'd  his  pate, 

Now  thought  himself  this  hero,  and  now  that : 

"  And  now,"  he  cried,  "  I  will  Achilles  be  ; 

My  sword  I  'II  brandish  ;  —  mark  !  the  Trojans  flee  ! 

Now  I  'II  be  Hector,  when  his  angry  blade 

A  lane  through  heaps  of  slaughter'd  Grecians  made  ! 

And  now  my  deeds  still  braver,  I'  11  evince, 

I  am  no  less  than  —  Edward  the  Black  Prince! 

Give  way,  ye  coward  French  !  " 

As  thus  he  spoke 
And  aim'd  in  fancy  a  sufficient  stroke 
To  fix  the  fate  of  Cressy  or  Poicliers, 
Heroically  spurning  trivial  fears. 
His  milk-white  hand  he  strikes  against  a  nail. 
Sees  his  own  blood,  and  feels  his  courage  fail ; 
Ah,  where  is  now  that  boasted  valour  flown, 
That  in  the  tented  field  so  late  was  shown  ? 
Achilles  weeps,  great  Hector  hangs  his  head. 
And  the  Black  Prince  goes  whimpering  to  bed ! 


222  ME.S.   HANNAH   MORE. 


MRS.  HANNAH  MORE. 
1745—1833. 

This  excellent  and  accomplished  lady  was  a  daughter  of  Jacob 
More,  a  village  schoolmaster,  at  Stapleton,  in  Gloucestershire, 
where  she  was  born  in  the  year  1745.  Her  literary  talents 
were  developed  early,  for  in  her  seventeenth  year  she  published 
a  Pastoral  Drama,  called  The  Search  after  Happiness,  and  for 
nearly  seventy  years  she  continued  to  write  in  various  shapes  for 
the  public.     She  died  in  1833. 

Mrs.  More's  chief  poetical  productions  are  her  Tragedies  of 
77te  Inflexible  Captive,  Percy,  and  The  Fatal  Falsehood :  her 
Sacred  Dramas :  Florio :  The  Bas  Bleu :  Sensibility :  and  Sir 
Eldred  of  the  Bower.  Dr.  Johnson  considered  Hannah  More 
the  best  of  the  female  versifiers  of  her  day  ;  but  the  memory  of 
her  poeiic  fame  cannot  be  said  to  have  survived  her.  She  is  now 
generally  considered  to  have  been  a  melodious  and  sensible  ver- 
sifier, but  not  possessed  of  much  true  poetic  fire. 

For  myself,  I  venture  to  think  that  Hannah  More  has  scarcely 
received  her  merited  share  of  fame  as  a  poet.  For,  notwithstand- 
ing her  didactic  style,  and  somewhat  mechanical  mode  of  thought, 
I  think  I  can  often  detect  in  her  writings  the  real  poetry  of  inspi- 
ration. Here  are  two  little  proverbs  which  show,  I  think,  a  genu- 
ine poetic  wit. 

"  In  men  this  blunder  still  you  find. 
All  think  their  little  set,  mankind." — 

**  Small  habits  well  pursued  betimes, 
May  reach  the  dignity  of  crimes." 


MRS.   HANNAH  MORE.  ,223 

There  is  something  more  than  measured  prose,  too,  in  tlie  fol- 
lowing extract  from  Sensibility : 


Since  trifles  make  the  sum  of  human  things, 

And  half  our  misery  from  our  foibles  springs ; 

Since  life's  best  joys  consist  in  peace  and  ease, 

And  though  but-few  can  serve,  yet  all  may  please ; 

O  let  the  ungentle  spirit  learn  from  hence, 

A  small  unkindness  is  a  great  ofl'ence. 

To  spread  large  bounties,  though  we  wish  in  vain. 

Yet  all  may  shun  the  guilt  of  giving  pain. 

To  bless  mankind  with  tides  of  flowing  wealth. 

With  rank  to  grace  them,  or  to  crown  with  health. 

Our  little  lot  denies  ;  yet  liberal  still, 

God  gives  its  counterpoise  to  every  ill ; 

Nor  let  us  murmur  at  our  stinted  powers. 

When  kindness,  love,  and  concord  may  be  ours. 

The  gift  of  minist'ring  to  others'  ease. 

To  all  her  sons  impartial  Heaven  decrees  ; 

The  gentle  ofBces  of  patient  love. 

Beyond  all  flattery,  and  all  price  above  ; 

The  mild  forbearance  at  a  brother's  fault, 

The  angry  word  suppress'd,  the  taunting  thought : 

Subduing  and  subdued  the  petty  strife. 

Which  clouds  the  colour  of  domestic  life ; 

The  sober  comfort,  all  the  peace  which  springs 

From  the  large  aggregate  of  little  things ; 

On  these  small  cares  of  daughter,  wife,  and  friend. 

The  almost  sacred  joys  of  Home  depend  : 

There,  Sensibility,  thou  best  may'st  reign, 

Home  is  thy  true  legitimate  domain. 


A  good  characteristic  specimen  of  Hannah  More's  lively,  good 
humoured,  moralising  style  of  verse  is  contained  in  her  story 
called 


224  MRS.  HANNAH   MORE. 


THE    TWO    WEAVERS. 

As  at  their  work  two  weavers  sat, 
Beguiling  time  with  friendly  chat, 
They  touch'd  upon  the  price  of  meat, 
So  high  a  weaver  scarce  could  eat. 

What  with  my  babes  and  sickly  wife, 
Quoth  Dick,  I  'm  almost  tir'd  of  life  ; 
So  hard  we  work,  so  poor  we  fare, 
'T  is  more  than  mortal  man  can  bear. 

How  glorious  is  the  rich  man's  state. 
His  house  so  fine,  his  wealth  so  great ; 
Heaven  is  unjust,  you  must  agree, 
Why  all  to  him,  and  none  to  me  ? 

In  spite  of  what  the  Scripture  teaches, 
In  spite  of  all  the  pulpit  preaches. 
The  world,  indeed  I  've  thought  so  long. 
Is  rul'd,  methinks,  extremely  wrong. 

Where'er  I  look,  howe'er  I  range, 
'T  is  all  confus'd,  and  hard,  and  strange  ; 
The  good  are  troubled  and  opprest, 
And  all  the  wicked  are  the  blest. 

Quoth  John,  our  ignorance  is  the  cause 
Why  thus  we  blame  our  Maker's  laws  ; 
Parts  of  his  ways  alone  we  know, 
'T  is  all  that  man  can  see  below. 

Seest  thou  that  carpet,  not  half  done. 
Which  thou,  dear  Dick,  hast  well  begun  ? 
Behold  the  wild  confusion  there  ! 
So  rude  the  mass,  it  makes  one  stare. 


MRS.  HANNAH   MORE.  225 


A  stranger,  ignorant  of  the  trade, 
Would  say  no  meaning 's  there  convey'd  ; 
For  where  's  the  middle,  where  's  the  border  ? 
The  carpet  now  is  all  disorder. 

Quoth  Dick,  my  work  is  yet  in  bits, 
But  still  in  every  part  it  fits  ; 
Besides,  you  reason  like  a  lout, 
Why  man,  that  carpet 's  inside  out ! 

Says  John,— Thou  say'st  the  thing  I  mean, 
And  now  I  hope  to  cure  thy  spleen : 
This  world,  which  clouds  thy  soul  with  doubt, 
Is  but  a  carpet  inside  out. 

As  when  we  view  these  shreds  and  ends, 
We  know  not  what  the  whole  intends  ; 
So  when  on  earth  things  look  but  odd. 
They  're  working  stiU  some  scheme  of  God. 

No  plan,  no  pattern  can  we  trace. 
All  wants  proportion,  truth,and  grace  ; 
The  motley  mixture  we  deride, 
Nor  see  the  beauteous  upper  side. 

But  when  we  reach  the  world  of  light, 
And  view  these  works  of  God  aright ; 
Then  shall  we  see  the  whole  design. 
And  own  the  workman  is  divine. 

What  now  seem  random  strokes  will  there 
All  order  and  design  appear  ; 
Then  shall  we  praise  what  here  we  spurn' d, 
For  then,  the  carpet  will  be  turn'd. 

Thou  'rt  right,  quoth  Dick,  no  more  I  '11  grumble 
That  this  world  is  so  strange  a  jumble  ; 
My  impious  doubts  are  put  to  flight. 
For  my  own  carpet  sets  me  right. 


29 


226  JMRS.   HANNAH   MORE. 


As  a  sample  of  Mrs.  More's  dramatic  poetry,  I  select  the  fol- 
lowing passage  from  Daniel,  one  of  her  Sacred  Dramas.  It  is 
the  speech  of  Daniel  on  being  condemned  to  death  : 

And  what  is  death,  my  friend,  that  I  should  fear  it  ? 

To  die  !  why  't  is  to  triumph  :  't  is  to  join 

The  great  assembly  of  the  good  and  just : 

Immortal  worthies,  heroes,  prophets,  saints  ! 

Oh,  't  is  to  join  the  band  of  holy  men, 

Made  perfect  by  their  sufferings  !     'T  is  to  meet 

My  great  progenitors  ;  't  is  to  behold 

The  illustrious  patriarchs :  they  with  whom  the  Lord 

Deign'd  hold  familiar  converse  !     'T  is  to  see 

Bless'd  Noah  and  his  children :  once  a  world. 

'T  is  to  behold  (O  rapture  to  conceive !) 

Those  we  have  known,  and  lov'd,  and  lost  below : 

Behold  Azariah  and  the  band  of  brothers 

Who  sought  in  bloom  of  youth  the  scorching  flames  ! 

Nor  shall  we  see  heroic  men  alone, 

Champions  who  fought  the  fight  of  faith  on  earth ; 

But  heavenly  conquerors,  angelic  hosts, 

Michael  and  his  bright  legions  who  subdued 

The  foes  of  Truth  !    To  join  their  blest  employ 

Of  love  and  praise  !     To  the  high  melodies 

Of  choirs  celestial  to  attune  my  voice, 

Accordant  to  the  golden  harps  of  saints  ! 

To  join  in  blest  hosannahs  to  their  king  ! 

Whose  face  to  see,  whose  glory  to  behold, 

Alone  were  heaven,  though  saint  or  seraph  none 

Should  meet  our  sight,  and  only  God  were  there  ! 

This  is  to  die !     Who  would  not  die  for  this? 

Who  would  not  die  that  he  might  live  for  ever? 

There  is  a  well  expressed  truth  in  the  following :  — 

PASSION    THE    SOURCE    OF    MISERY. 

Yet  Heaven's  decrees  are  just  and  wise, 
And  man  is  born  to  bear  ; 


MRS.   HANNAH  MORE. 


227 


Joy  is  the  portion  of  the  skies, 
Beneath  them  all  is  care. 

Yet  blame  not  Heav'n  ;  't  is  erring  man 
Who  mars  his  own  best  joys  ; 

Whose  passion  uncontroll'd  the  plan 
Of  promis'd  bliss  destroys. 


The  deadliest  wounds  with  which  we  bleed, 

Our  crimes  inflict  alone  : 
Man's  mercies  from  God's  hand  proceed. 

His  miseries  from  his  own. 


228  MISS   HELEN  MARIA   WILLIAMS. 


MISS   HELEN  MARIA.  WILLIAMS, 

1780—1823, 

Was  the  author,  amongst  other  verses,  of  some  of  the  most 
musical  and  expressive  sonnets  in  our  language.  The  first  of 
these  here  printed  is  a  great  favourite  of  Wordsworth's. 

SONNET    TO    HOPE. 

O  ever  skill'd  to  wear  the  form  we  love  ! 

To  bid  the  shapes  of  fear  and  grief  depart ; 
Come,  gentle  Hope  !  with  one  gay  smile  remove 

The  lasting  sadness  of  an  aching  heart. 
Thy  voice,  benign  enchantress  !  let  me  hear ; 

Say  that  for  me  some  pleasures  yet  shall  bloom, 
That  Fancy's  radiance,  Friendship's  precious  tear, 

Shall  soften,  or  shall  chase,  misfortune's  gloom. 
But  come  not  glowing  in  the  dazzling  ray. 

Which  once  with  dear  illusions  charm'd  the  eye ; 
0  !  strew  no  more,  sweet  flatterer !  on  my  way 

The  flowers  I  fondly  thought  too  bright  to  die  ; 
Visions  less  fair  will  soothe  my  pensive  breast, 
That  asks  not  happiness,  but  longs  for  rest ! 


PARAPHRASE. 
Psalm  LXXIV.  16,  17. 

My  God !  all  nature  owns  thy  sway, 
Thou  giv'st  the  night  and  thou  the  day  ! 
When  all  thy  lov'd  creation  wakes. 
When  morning,  rich  in  lustre,  breaks, 


And  bathes  in  dew  the  opening  flower, 

To  Thee  we  owe  her  fragrant  hour  ; 

And  when  she  pours  her  choral  song, 

Her  melodies  to  Thee  belong  ! 

Or  when,  in  paler  tints  array'd. 

The  evening  slowly  spreads  her  shade. 

That  soothing  shade,  that  grateful  gloom, 

Can  more  than  day's  enlivening  bloom 

Still  every  fond  and  vain  desire. 

And  calmer,  purer  thoughts  inspire  ; 

From  earth  the  pensive  spirit  free, 

And  lead  the  soften'd  heart  to  Thee. 

In  every  scene  thy  hands  have  dress' d, 

In  every  form  by  thee  impress'd, 

Upon  the  mountain's  awful  head. 

Or  where  the  sheltering  woods  are  spread  ; 

In  every  note  that  swells  the  gale. 

Or  tuneful  stream  that  cheers  the  vale. 

The  cavern's  depth  or  echoing  grove, 

A  voice  is  heard  of  praise  and  love. 

As  o'er  thy  work  the  seasons  roll. 

And  soothe,  with  change  of  bliss,  the  soul. 

Oh,  never  may  their  smiling  train 

Pass  o'er  the  human  scene  in  vain ! 

But  oft  as  on  the  charm  we  gaze, 

Attune  the  wondering  soul  to  praise ; 

And  be  the  joys  that  most  we  prize 

The  joys  that  from  thy  favour  rise  ! 


SONNET. 

To  Twilight. 


Meek  twilight !  haste  to  shroud  the  solar  ray. 
And  bring  the  hour  my  pensive  spirit  loves ; 

When  o'er  the  hill  is  shed  a  paler  day. 

That  gives  to  stillness,  and  to  night,  the  groves. 


V 


230  MISS  HELEN    MARIA   WILLIAMS. 

Ah,  let  the  gay,  the  roseate  morning  hail, 

When  in  the  various  blooms  of  light  array'd. 
She  bids  fresh  beauty  live  along  the  vale. 

And  rapture  tremble  in  the  vocal  shade : 
Sweet  is  the  lucid  morning's  opening  flower, 

Her  choral  melodies  benignly  rise  : 
Yet  dearer  to  my  soul  the  shadowy  hour, 

At  which  her  blossoms  close,  her  music  dies : 
For  then  mild  Nature,  while  she  droops  her  head, 
Wakes  the  soft  tear  't  is  luxury  to  shed. 


SONG. 

Ah,  Evan,  by  thy  winding  stream 

How  once  I  lov'd  to  stray. 
And  view  the  morning's  reddening  beam, 

Or  charm  of  closing  day  ! 

To  yon  dear  grot  by  Evan's  side^ 

How  oft  my  steps  were  led. 
Where  far  beneath  the  waters  glide, 

And  thick  the  woods  are  spread! 

But  I  no  more  a  charm  can  see 

In  Evan's  lovely  glades  ; 
And  drear  and  desolate  to  me 

Are  those  enchanting  shades. 

While  far  —  how  far  from  Evan's  bowers, 

My  wandering  lover  flies  ; 
Where  dark  the  angry  tempest  lowers, 

And  high  the  billows  rise  ! 

And  O,  where'er  the  wanderer  goes, 

Is  that  poor  mourner  dear. 
Who  gives,  while  soft  the  Evan  flows, 

Each  passing  wave  a  tear  ! 


And  does  he  now  that  grotto  view  ? 

On  those  steep  banks  still  gaze  ? 
In  fancy  does  he  still  pursue 

The  Evan's  lovely  maze  ? 

O  come  !  repass  the  stormy  wave, 

O  toil  for  gold  no  more  ! 
Our  love  a  dearer  pleasure  gave 

On  Evan's  peaceful  shore. 

Leave  not  my  breaking  heart  to  mourn 

The  joys  so  long  denied; 
Ah,  soon  to  those  green  banks  return, 

Where  Evan  meets  the  Clyde  ! 


SONNET. 
To  the  Moon. 


The  glittering  colours  of  the  day  are  lied  — 

Come,  melancholy  orb  1  that  dwell' st  with  night, 
Come,  and  o'er  earth  thy  wandering  lustre  shed, 

Thy  deepest  shadow,  and  thy  softest  light. 
To  me  congenial  is  the  gloomy  grove, 

When  with  faint  rays  the  sloping  uplands  shine; 
That  gloom,  those  pensive  rays,  alike  I  love, 

Whose  sadness  seems  in  sympathy  with  mine. 
But  most  for  this,  pale  orb !  thy  light  is  dear. 

For  this,  benignant  orb  !  I  hail  thee  most. 
That  while  I  pour  the  unavailing  tear. 

And  mourn  that  hope  to  me  in  youth  is  lost  — 
Thy  light  can  visionary  thoughts  impart. 
And  lead  the  Muse  to  soothe  a  suffering  heart. 


232  MISS  HELEN  MARIA   WILLIAMS. 


HABITUAL    DEVOTION. 

While  Thee  I  seek,  protecting  Power ! 

Be  my  vain  wishes  still'd  ; 
And  may  this  consecrated  hour 

With  better  hopes  be  fill'd  ! 

Thy  love  the  powers  of  thought  bestow'd 
To  Thee  my  thoughts  would  soar; 

Thy  mercy  o'er  my  life  has  flovv'd  ;  — 
That  mercy  I  adore  ! 

In  each  event  of  life,  how  clear 

Thy  ruling  hand  I  see  ! 
Each  blessing  to  my  soul  more  dear, 

Because  conferr'd  by  Thee  ! 

In  every  joy  that  crowns  my  days, 

In  every  pain  I  bear, 
My  heart  shall  find  delight  in  praise. 

Or  seek  relief  in  prayer. 

When  gladness  wings  my  favour'd  hour, 
Thy  love  my  thoughts  shall  fill ; 

Resign'd,  when  storms  of  sorrow  lour, 
My  soul  shall  meet  tliy  will. 

My  lifted  eye,  without  a  tear. 

The  louring  storm  shall  see  ; 
My  stedfast  heart  shall  know  no  fear  ; 
That  heart  will  rest  on  Thee  ! 


ELEANOR   ANNE  FRANKLIN.  233 


ELEANOR  ANNE  FRANKLIN, 

1790—1825, 

Was  the  daughter  of  Mr.  Porden,  an  architect,  and  wife  of  the 
enterprising  Captain  Franklin.  She  wrote  The  Veils,  or  the  Tri- 
umph of  Constancy ;  Cceur  de  Lion,  or  the  Third  Crusade; 
and  The  Arctic  Expedition.     She  died  in  1825. 

The  following  extract  is  from  Cii'ur  de  Lion.  Queen  Beren- 
garia,  in  the  garb  of  a  minstrel,  has  arrived  at  the  castle  of  Tri- 
vallis,  where  Richard  is  confined. 

She  left  her  steed  beneath  the  beechen  shade, 

"  And  art  thou  there  ?  my  best  belov'd  !"  she  said  ; 

"  Upbraiding  all  that  to  thy  help  should  fly, 

"  Nor  think'st  what  fond,  what  anxious  heart  is  nigh." 

Eve's  last  soft  flushes  fade,  and  all  is  still, 
While  veil'd  in  gloom,  she  climbs  the  arduous  hill. 
Rude  was  the  path,  nor  oft  by  pilgrim  worn, 
O'er-grown  with  briars,  long,  wildering  and  forlorn  : 

Scarce  might  the  horseman  trace  that  dangerous  way, 
Through  brakes,  impervious  to  the  summer  day, 
Now  wrapt  in  night:   while  onward  as  she  hies, 
Scar'd  at  her  step,  the  birds  of  carnage  rise. 

At  last,  yet  shrouded  in  the  castle's  shade. 
Cautious  she  cross'd  its  spacious  esplanade ; 
Mark'd  each  strong  wall,  with  lowers  begirt  around, 
The  massy  keep  what  lofty  turrets  crown'd  ; 
The  boy  who  never  dreamt  of  war  might  know 
Those  awful  ramparts  would  but  mock  the  foe ; 
30  u* 


234  ELEANOR  ANNE  FRANKLIN. 

While  not  one  light  the  abode  of  man  confest, 

Or  gave  the  weary  pilgrim  hope  of  rest. 

Those  grated  loopholes  o'er  the  gate  —  ah,  there 

Perchance  her  Richard  wastes  with  secret  care  ! 

Whose  gifts  were  kingdoms,  now  by  famine  dies  — 

His  only  prospect  those  relentless  skies, 

His  only  visitant  the  bats,  that  prowl 

Round  the  grim  tower,  or  nightly-hooting  owl ! 

Mournful  she  stood  ;  but  soon  the  breeze  that  sighs 
Through  her  lone  harp,  bids  other  thoughts  arise. 
"Yet,  yet,"  she  said,  "some  dear  familiar  strain 
May  reach  his  ceU,  and  bolts  and  bars  be  vain ; 
While  should  some  jealous  warder  mark  the  lay, 
'T  is  but  a  minstrel  sings  to  clieer  his  way. 
Ah,  me  !  that  air  to  early  love  so  dear, 
Even  in  the  tomb  might  rouse  my  Richard's  ear ; 
Oh  1  could  I  pour  his  deep  clear  tones  along, 
And  steal  his  accents  as  I  steal  his  song  ! 

'Frown,  frown,  Clorinda  —  I  would  prize 
Thy  smile  o'er  all  that  arms  might  gain ; 
O'er  wealth  and  fame :  yet  mock  my  sighs, 
My  faded  cheek,  my  tears  despise, 

Nor  I  my  fate  arraign ; 
While  every  rival's  grief  I  see. 
And  know  that  all  are  scorn'd  like  me.'  " 

She  ceas'd, —  for  from  on  high  a  fuller  tone 
Though  faint  in  distance,  blended  with  her  own ; 
That  voice,  those  words,  could  come  from  one  alone. 

"  O  smile  not,  if  thou  e'er  bestow 

On  others,  grace  I  think  sincere  ; 
Such  smiles  are  like  the  beams  that  glow 
On  the  dark  torrent's  bridge  of  snow, 
And  wreck  the  wreicli  they  cheer. 
Thine  icy  heart  I  well  can  bear. 
But  not  the  love  that  others  share." 


Bright  hour  of  rapture  !  wlio  may  dare  to  tell 
In  her  fond  breast  what  blended  feelings  swell ! 
With  parted  lips,  clos'd  eyes,  and  hands  comprest, 
To  still  the'  impetuous  beatings  of  her  breast, 
Listening  she  stood  :   while  conscious  memory  strays 
To  that  blest  hour  when  first  she  heard  the  lays. 
Ecstatic  dream  —  at  length  her  faltering  tongue 
Its  grief  express'd  in  emblematic  song :  — 

"The  widow'd  dove  can  never  rest. 
The  felon  kite  has  robb'd  her  nest ; 
With  wing  untir'd  she  seeks  her  mate, 
To  share  or  change  his  dreadful  fate." 

Again  she  paus'd,  and  listening,  from  on  high 
Caught  from  the  friendly  gale  the  faint  reply. 

"  But  kites  a  higher  power  obey  ; 
Th'  Imperial  Eagle  claims  the  prey  — 
Hence  !  to  his  spacious  eyrie  go. 
The  Eagle  is  a  nobler  foe." 

She  strikes  the  harp  —  "  Farewell !  farewell !" 
Her  thrilling  notes  of  transport  swell :  — 

"  The  monarch  bird  may  build  his  nest 
On  oak,  or  tower,  or  mountain  crest, 
But  love  can  match  his  daring  flight. 
Can  fell  the  tree,  or  scale  the  height." 

"  Ho  !  who  art  thou  —  "a  sturdy  warder  calls, 

"  That  dar'st  to  sing  beneath  Trivallis'  walls  ?"  — 

"  A  wandering  bard,  good  friend,  who  fain  would  win 

"  These  awful  gates  to  let  the  weary  in."  — 

"  Nay,  hence  !  nor  dare  to  touch  thy  harp  again, 

"  And  thank  thy  saints  't  was  I  that  heard  the  strain  : 

"  Tir'd  as  thou  art,  fly  swiftly  o'er  the  heath, 

"  And  shun  these  walls  as  thou  wouldst  shun  thy  death." 


But  was  that  pilgrim  weary  ?     Oh  !  less  fleet 

The  mountain  chamois  plies  its  fearless  feet : 

"  Farewell !  my  ears  are  blest  though  not  my  eyes, 

Thy  chains  shall  fall,"  she  warbles  as  she  flies : 

"  Thou  gentle  guardian  of  my  steps,  my  will. 

Take  my  soul's  blessing,  and  direct  me  still. 

At  Haguenau  soon  the  empire's  magnates  meet, 

Oh !  touch  the  Eagle's  heart— oh  !  guide  my  wandering  feet." 


SUSANNA   BLAMIRE.  237 


SUSANNA  BLAMIRE, 

1747—1794, 

Whose  poetry  was  so  highly  esteemed  in  her  own  day  that  she 
was  styled  "  the  Muse  of  Cumberland,"  was  the  daughter  of 
William  Blamire,  Esq.,  a  gentleman  of  station  and  repute  in  the 
county  named ;  where  she  was  born  in  1747.  Losing  her  mo- 
ther when  she  was  only  seven  years  of  age,  she  was  early  thrown 
upon  her  own  mental  resources :  and  she  for  some  years  gave 
herself  completely  up  to  her  studies.  That  her  application  was 
effectual,  we  find  from  the  fact  that  at  the  age  of  nineteen,  and 
even  before,  she  wrote  some  very  excellent  poems.  She  died  at 
Carlisle  in  1794  :  her  writings,  however,  were  not  published  in 
a  collected  form  for  some  years. 

The  characteristics  of  Miss  Blamire's  poetry  are  considerable 
tenderness  of  feeling,  very  gracefully  expressed,  and  a  refined 
delicacy  of  imagination,  which,  whilst  it  never  thrills,  always 
pleases.  Her  poem  called  "  The  Nabob,"  which  describes  the 
return  of  an  Indian  adventurer  to  the  home  of  his  youth,  is  a  very 
affecting  and  delightful  production.  Her  songs,  though  not  with- 
out marks  of  elaboration,  display  great  simplicity  and  force  of 
feeling.     I  select  two  specimens : 


What  ails  this  heart  o'  mine  ? 

What  ails  thy  watery  ee  ? 
What  gars  me  a'  turn  cauld  as  death 

When  I  take  leave  o'  thee  ? 
When  thou  art  far  awa' 

Thou  'It  dearer  grow  to  me  ; 
But  change  o'  place  and  change  o'  folk, 

May  gar  thy  fancy  jee  ! 


238  SUSANNA   BLAMIRE. 


When  I  gae  out  at  e'en, 

Or  walk  at  morning  air, 
Ilk  rustling  bush  will  seem  to  say, 

I  us'd  to  meet  thee  there. 
Then  I  '11  sit  down  an'  cry, 

And  live  aneath  the  tree  ; 
And  when  a  leaf  fa's  in  my  lap, 
I  'II  ca  't  a  word  frae  thee. 

I  '11  hie  me  to  the  bower 

That  thou  Avi'  roses  tied, 
And  where  wi'  many  a  blushing  bud 

I  strove  myself  to  hide. 
I  '11  doat  on  ilka  spot 

Where  I  ha'e  been  with  thee  ; 
And  ca'  to  mind  some  kindly  word 

By  ilka  burn  and  tree  ! 

Wi'  sic  thoughts  in  my  mind, 

Time  through  the  world  may  gae. 
And  find  my  heart  in  twenty  years 

The  same  as  't  is  to-day. 
'Tis  thoughts  that  bind  the  soul, 

And  keep  friends  i'  the  ee, 
And  gin  I  think  I  see  thee  aye, 

What  can  part  thee  and  me  ! 


The  authorship  of  the  following  well  known  and  justly-admired 
song  was  long  unknown,  but  there  is  now  no  doubt  that  it  is  the 
production  of  Miss  Blamire. 

THE    SILLER    CROWN. 

And  ye  shall  walk  in  silk  attire. 

And  siller  hae  to  spare, 
Gin  ye  '11  consent  to  be  his  bride 

Nor  think  o'  Donald  mair. 


SUSANNA   BLAMIRE. 


239 


O  wha  would  buy  a  silken  gown 

Wi'  a  poor  broken  heart ! 
O  what 's  to  me  a  siller  crown 

Gin  frae  my  love  I  part ! 

The  mind  wha's  every  wish  is  pure 

Far  dearer  is  to  me  ; 
And  ere  I  'm  forced  to  break  my  faith, 

I  '11  lay  me  down  and  dee  ! 
For  I  have  pledg'd  my  virgin  troth 

Brave  Donald's  fate  to  share  ; 
And  he  has  gi'en  to  me  his  heart 

Wi'  a'  its  virtues  rare  ! 


His  gentle  manners  won  my  heart, 

He  gratefu'  took  the  gift ; 
Could  I  but  think  to  see  it  back, 

It  wad  be  waur  than  theft ! 
For  longest  life  can  ne'er  repay 

The  love  he  bears  to  me  ; 
And  ere  I'm  forc'd  to  break  my  troth, 

I  '11  lay  me  down  and  dee  ! 


240  MRS.  MARY  BRUNTON. 


MRS.  MARY  BRUNTON. 

1778—1818. 

This  lady,  justly  celebrated  for  her  excellent  novels  of  Self- 
Control,  Discipline,  and  Emmeline,  was  born  in  1778  in  the 
Island  of  Orkney.  Her  father,  Colonel  Balfour,  caused  her  to  be 
more  than  ordinarily  well  educated  :  j-et  not  to  the  exclusion  of 
household  cares  and  duties.  In  her  thirtieth  year  she  became  the 
wife  of  the  Rev.  Alexander  Brunton,  a  clergyman  of  the  Scotch 
church,  late  professor  of  Hebrew  in  the  University  of  Edinburgh, 
with  whom  she  lived  for  many  years  most  happily,  and  whom  she 
left  a  sorrowing  widower  in  1818.  Of  her  novels  it  is  not  ne- 
cessary here  to  speak ;  the  more  especially  as  their  great  merit 
has  been  universally  acknowledged.  Her  poetical  compositions 
are  extremely  few :  but  they  all  exhibit  the  characteristics  of  her 
pen  —  great  force  of  thought  and  gracefulness  of  composition.  I 
extract  only  one  of  her  productions  ;  which  she  calls 


STANZAS    FOR   MUSIC. 

When  thou  at  eventide  art  roaming 

Along  the  elm-o'ershaded  walk. 

Where,  past,  the  eddying  stream  is  foaming 

Beneath  its  tiny  cataract, 

Where  I  with  thee  was  wont  to  talk, — 

Think  then  upon  the  days  gone  by, 

And  heave  a  sigh  ! 

When  sails  the  moon  above  the  mountains, 
And  cloudless  skies  are  purely  blue. 


MRS.   MARY  BRUNTON.  241 


And  sparkle  in  the  light  the  fountains, 
And  darker  frowns  the  lonely  yew,  — 
Then  be  thou  melancholy  too, 
When  musing  on  the  hours  I  prov'd 
With  thee,  belov'd ! 

When  wakes  the  dawn  upon  thy  dwelling, 

And  lingering  shadows  disappear, 

And  soft  the  woodland  songs  are  swelling 

A  choral  anthem  on  thine  ear,  — 

Think  —  for  that  hour  to  thought  is  dear  ! 

And  then  her  flight  remembrance  wings 

To  by-past  things. 

To  me,  through  every  season,  dearest, 
In  every  scene  — by  day,  by  night. 
Thou  present  to  my  mind  appearest 
A  quenchless  star  —  for  ever  bright ! 
My  solitary,  sole  delight ! 
Alone  —  in  grove  —  by  shore  —  at  sea, 
I  think  of  thee  ! 

31  w 


242  ANNA   L^TITIA   BARBAULD. 


ANNA  LiETITIA  BARBAULD, 
1743—1825, 

Was  the  daughter  of  the  Reverend  John  Aiken,  D.  D.,  of  Kib- 
worth  Harcourt,  in  Leicestershire,  where  she  was  born  in  1743. 
She  very  early  evinced  a  remarkable  aptitude  for  study  ;  even  in 
infancy  she  was  described  by  her  mother,  as  "  a  little  girl  who 
was  as  eager  to  learn  as  her  instructors  could  be  to  teach  her  ; 
and  who,  at  two  years  old,  could  read  sentences  and  little  stories 
in  her  ivise  book,  roundly,  without  spelling,  and,  in  half  a  year 
more,  could  read  as  well  as  most  women." 

Her  father  appears  to  have  feared  that  she  would  become  too 
fond  of  letters  ;  for,  until  she  was  fifteen  years  of  age,  he  reso- 
lutely refused  her  his  permission  to  study  the  learned  languages. 
We  find,  notwithstanding,  that  she  acquired  considerable  know- 
ledge of  both  Latin  and  Greek. 

Her  first  volume  of  poems  was  published  in  1773,  she  beino- 
then  thirty  years  of  age.  The  success  of  the  work  was  remark- 
ably great:  it  passed  through  four  editions  within  the  first  year. 
In  1774  she  became  the  wife  of  the  Reverend  Rochemont  Bar- 
bauld,  a  dissenting  minister.  For  a  considerable  number  of  years, 
Mrs.  Barbauld  was  engaged  with  her  husband  in  the  laborious 
work  of  tuition:  and  many  individuals  now  alive  can  testify  to 
the  singular  talent  she  displayed  in  her  arduous  vocation.  Lord 
Denman,  William  Taylor,  Esquire,  of  Norwich,  and  other  emi- 
nent persons,  whose  names  escape  me,  were  amongst  Mr.  Bar- 
bauld's  pupils. 

After  a  continental  tour  in  1785,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Barbauld  settled 
at  Hampstead,  wliere  they  remained  until  1802  ;  in  which  year 
they  removed  to  Stoke  Newington,  where  Mrs.  Barbauld  contin- 
ued her  literary  pursuits  with  great  ardour.     The  death  of  her 


ANNA   L.T.TITIA   BARBAULD.  243 

husband  in  1808,  however,  interrupted  her  labours;  and,  though 
she  resumed  them  in  1810,  they  were  not  destined  to  be  of  long 
continuance:  for  some  unjust  and  unkind  criticisms  upon  a  poem 
published  in  1812,  led  her  to  resolve  upon  retiring  from  the  lite- 
rary world.  She  lived  for  many  years  in  undisturbed  peace,  and 
died  in  1825,  in  the  eighty -second  year  of  her  age,  deeply  and 
deservedly  lamented. 

Mrs.  Barbauld's  poetry  exhibits,  in  a  high  degree,  the  charac- 
teristic qualities  of  female  genius.  The  quick  intuitive  perception, 
the  chaste  tenderness,  the  delicate,  musical  flow  of  thought,  that 
distinguish  the  female  mind,  are  very  forcibly  and  fully  developed 
by  Mrs.  Barbauld.  In  these  respects  she  is  second  only  to  Mrs. 
Hemans ;  whilst  in  many  other  points  of  view  she  is  decidedly  a 
greater  and  more  instructive  writer. 

The  following  Sonnet  is  a  fair  sample  of  our  author's  grace- 
fulness of  thought  and  style.     She  inscribes  it  — 


TO  A  LADY  WITH  SOME  FLOWERS. 

Flowers  to  the  Fair !  to  you  these  flowers  I  bring. 
And  strive  to  greet  you  with  an  earlier  spring. 
Flowers  sweet  and  gay,  and  delicate  like  you, 
Emblems  of  innocence  and  beauty,  too. 
With  flowers  the  Graces  bind  their  yellow  hair. 
And  flowery  wreaths  consenting  lovers  wear. 
Flowers,  the  sole  luxury  which  nature  knew, 
In  Eden's  pure  and  guiltless  garden  grew. 
To  loftier  forms  and  rougher  tasks  assign'd, 
The  sheltering  oak  resists  the  stormy  wind,  — 
The  tougher  yew  repels  invading  foes, 
And  the  tall  pine  for  future  navies  grows  ; 
But  this  soft  family,  to  cares  unknown. 
Were  born  for  pleasures  and  delight  alone. 
Gay  without  toil,  and  lovely  without  art, 
They  spring  to  cheer  the  sense  and  glad  the  heart. 
Nor  blush,  my  fair,  to  own  you  copy  these  ; 
Your  best,  your  sweetest  empire  is  —  to  please. 


244  ANNA    L^TITIA   BARBAULD. 

One  of  Mrs.  Barbauld's  most  admired  productions  is  her  "  Ode 
to  Spring:  "  and  I  think  that  the  praise  commonly  bestowed  upon 
this  poem  is  amply  deserved.  It  is  full  of  beautiful  thoughts, 
and  contains  some  imagery  of  the  most  chaste  and  elegant 
description.  It  is,  moreover,  a  most  happy  imitation  of  the  style 
of  Collins  :  a  very  difficult  model  to  copy. 

ODE    TO    SPRING. 

Sweet  daughter  of  a  rough  and  stormy  sire. 
Hoar  Winter's  blooming  child,  delightful  Spring  ! 

Whose  unshorn  locks  with  leaves 

And  swelling  buds  are  crown'd  ; 

From  the  green  islands  of  eternal  youth, 

(Crown'd  with  fresh  blooms,  and  ever-springing  shade) 

Turn,  hither  turn  thy  step, 

O  thou,  whose  powerful  voice, 

More  sweet  than  softest  touch  of  Doric  reed, 
Or  Lydian  flute,  can  soothe  the  madding  winds. 

And  through  the  stormy  deep 

Breathe  thy  own  tender  calm. 

Thee,  best  belov'd  !  the  virgin  train  await. 
With  songs  and  festal  rites,  and  joy  to  rove 

Thy  blooming  wilds  among, 

And  vales  and  dewy  lawns, 

With  untir'd  feet ;  and  cull  thy  earliest  sweets 
To  weave  fresh  garlands  for  the  glowing  brow 

Of  him,  the  favour'd  youth. 

That  prompts  their  whisper'd  sigh. 

Unlock  ihy  copious  stores ;  those  tender  showers 
That  drop  their  sweetness  on  the  infant  buds, 

And  silent  dews  that  swell 

The  milky  ear's  green  stem, 


ANNA   LiETITIA   BARBAULD.  245 

And  feed  the  flowering  osier's  early  shoots  ; 

And  calls  those  winds  which  through  the  whispering  boughs 

With  warm  and  pleasant  breath 

Salute  the  blowing  flowers. 

Now  let  me  sit  beneath  the  whitening  thorn, 
And  mark  thy  spreading  tints  steal  o'er  the  dale ; 

And  watch  with  patient  eye 

Thy  fair  unfolding  charms. 

O  nymph  !  approach,  while  yet  the  temperate  sun 
With  bashful  forehead,  through  the  cool  moist  air 

Throws  his  young  maiden  beams, 

And  with  chaste  kisses  woos 

The  earth's  fair  bosom  ;  while  the  streaming  veil 
Of  lucid  clouds  with  kind  and  frequent  shade, 

Protects  thy  modest  blooms 

From  his  severer  blaze. 

Sweet  is  thy  reign,  but  short ;  the  red  dog-star 
Shall  scorch  thy  tresses,  and  the  mower's  scythe 

Thy  greens,  thy  flow'rets  all. 

Remorseless  shall  destroy. 

Reluctant  shall  I  bid  thee,  then,  farewell ; 
For  oh !  not  all  that  Autumn's  lap  contains, 

Nor  summer's  ruddiest  fruits, 

Can  aught  for  thee  atone. 

Fair  Spring  !  whose  simplest  promise  more  delights 
Than  all  their  largest  wealth,  and  through  the  heart 

Each  joy  and  new-born  hope 

With  softest  influence  breathes. 

One  of  the  chief  literary  faults  of  the  era  immediately  preceding 
our  own  was  a  certain  abstractedness  of  thought,  which  I  cannot 
better  describe  than  by  calling  it  a  too  strong  tendency  towards 


246  ANNA  L^ETITIA  BARBAULD. 


the  Ideal.  Our  writers  shrank  from  Reality  ;  shrank,  I  think,  too 
far  from  it.  They  spiritualised  all  that  they  attempted  to  de- 
scribe ;  lifted  their  subjects  into  the  clouds  ;  and  too  often,  alas ! 
left  them  there.  And  the  result  of  this  error  was  that  they  dis- 
tanced the  sympathies,  and  frequently  failed  to  interest  the  reader. 

The  Female  poets  of  the  time  fell  the  most  readily  into  the 
mistake,  and  well  nigh  deluged  the  poetic  world  with  their  cloudy 
abstractions  and  etherealised  personifications.  Sentiments,  feel- 
ings, and  passions  were  all  refined  into  deities,  and  addressed  as 
if  they  were  superintendents  of  human  fate  and  conduct.  Nothino- 
is  more  common,  in  the  works  of  the  period  referred  to,  than  to 
meet  with  poems  To  Sensibility — To  Hope  —  To  JVisdom  — 
To  Indolence — To  Fear — To  Health^  To  Simplicity,  and 
so  forth :  and  nothing  can  well  be  more  drowsy  than  the  efiect 
of  such  productions. 

Mrs.  Barbauld  fell  partially  into  this  fault.  Her  poems  con- 
tain many  of  these  abstractions  :  and  any  neglect  that  her  works 
may  have  experienced,  must,  I  am  inclined  to  believe,  be  attribu- 
ted chiefly  to  this  cause.  The  following  poem  is,  I  think,  one  of 
the  best  samples  I  can  select  of  the  faulty  style  to  which  I  refer. 


HYMN    TO   CONTENT. 

O  thou  !  the  nymph  with  placid  eye  ! 
O  seldom  found,  yet  ever  nigh  ! 

Receive  my  temperate  vow  : 
Not  all  the  storms  that  shake  the  pole 
Can  e'er  disturb  thy  halcyon  soul, 

And  smooth  unalter'd  brow. 

O  come,  in  simple  vest  array'd, 
With  all  thy  sober  cheer  display'd, 

To  bless  my  longing  sight ; 
Thy  mien  composed,  thy  even  pace, 
Thy  meek  regard,  thy  matron  grace, 

And  chaste  subdued  deliofht. 


ANNA   L^TITIA   BARBAULD.  247 


No  more  by  varying  passions  beat, 
O  gently  guide  my  pilgrim  feet 

To  find  thy  hermit  cell  ; 
Where  in  some  pure  and  equal  sky 
Beneath  thy  soft  indulgent  eye 

The  modest  virtues  dwell. 

Simplicity  in  Attic  vest, 

And  Innocence  with  candid  breast. 

And  clear  undaunted  eye  ; 
And  Hope,  who  points  to  distant  years. 
Fair  opening  through  the  vale  of  tears 

A  vista  to  the  sky. 

There  Health,  through  whose  calm  bosom  glide 
The  temperate  joys  in  even  tide. 

That  rarely  ebb  or  flow  ; 
And  Patience  there,  thy  sister  meek. 
Presents  her  mild  unvarying  cheek 

To  meet  the  offered  blow. 

Her  influence  taught  the  Phrygian  sage 
A  tyrant  master's  wanton  rage 

With  settled  smiles  to  meet ; 
Inured  to  toil  and  bitter  bread, 
He  bowed  his  meek  submitted  head, 

And  kissed  thy  sainted  feet. 

But  thou,  oh  nymph,  retired  and  coy. 
In  what  brown  liamlet  dost  thou  joy 

To  tell  thy  tender  tale  ? 
The  lowliest  children  of  the  ground. 
Moss-rose  and  violet,  blossom  round. 

And  lily  of  the  vale. 

0  say,  what  soft  propitious  hour, 

1  best  may  choose  to  hail  thy  power, 

And  court  thy  gentle  sway  ? 


248  ANNA  L^TITIA  BARBAULD. 


When  Autumn,  friendly  to  the  Muse, 
Shall  thy  own  modest  tints  diffuse, 
And  shed  thy  milder  day. 

When  Eve,  her  dewy  star  beneath. 
Thy  balmy  spirit  loves  to  breathe, 

And  every  storm  is  laid  ; 
If  such  an  hour  was  e'er  thy  choice. 
Oft  let  me  hear  thy  soothing  voice 

Low  whispering  in  the  shade. 

Mrs.  Barbauld's  muse  is  highly  devotional.  Her  religious 
poems  are  very  purely  beautiful  in  sentiment;  and  her  sense  of 
reliance  on  the  Deity  is  very  strong  and  admirable.  The  follow- 
ing lines  will  prove  it. 

ON    THE    DEITY. 

I  read  God's  awful  name  emblazon'd  high 

With  golden  letters  on  th'  illumin'd  sky  ; 

Nor  less  the  mystic  characters  I  see 

Wrought  in  each  flower,  inscribed  on  every  tree  ; 

In  every  leaf  that  trembles  to  the  breeze 

I  hear  the  voice  of  God  among  the  trees. 

With  Thee  in  shady  solitudes  I  walk. 

With  Thee  in  busy  crowded  cities  talk  ; 

In  every  creature  own  Thy  forming  power. 

In  each  event  Thy  providence  adore. 

Thy  hopes  shall  animate  my  drooping  soul. 
Thy  precepts  guide  me  and  Thy  fear  control : 
Thus  shall  I  rest,  unmov'd  by  all  alarms. 
Secure  within  the  temple  of  Thine  arms  ; 
From  anxious  cares,  from  gloomy  terrors  free, 
And  feel  myself  omnipotent  in  Thee. 

Then  when  the  last,  the  closing  hour  draws  nigh, 
A-nd  earth  recedes  before  my  swimming  eye, — 


ANNA  LiETITIA  BARBAULD.  249 

When  trembling  on  the  doubtful  edge  of  fate 
I  stand,  and  stretch  my  view  to  either  state :  — 
Teach  me  to  quit  this  transitory  scene 
With  decent  triumph  and  a  look  serene  ; 
Teach  me  to  fix  my  ardent  hopes  on  high, 
And  having  lived  to  Thee,  in  Thee  to  die ! 


It  is,  indeed,  in  devotional  subjects  that  Mrs.  Barbauld  shows 
her  greatest  eloquence  and  strength.  Whilst  writing  on  religion 
her  faculties  seem  thoroughly  to  clear  and  concentrate  themselves  : 
and  then  it  is  that  her  spirit  pours  forth  its  treasures  most  abun- 
dantly and  purely.  There  is  something  very  stirring  and  thrilling 
in  this 


HYMN. 

Jehovah  reigns  :  let  every  nation  hear, 
And  at  his  footstool  bow  with  holy  fear ; 
Let  Heaven's  high  arches  echo  with  His  name. 
And  the  wide  peopled  earth  His  praise  proclaim ; 
Then  send  it  down  to  hell's  deep  glooms  resounding. 
Through  all  her  caves  in  dreadful  murmurs  sounding. 

He  rules  with  wide  and  absolute  command 
O'er  the  broad  ocean  and  the  steadfast  land : 
Jehovah  reigns,  unbounded  and  alone, 
And  all  creation  hangs  beneath  His  throne. 
He  reigns  alone  :  let  no  inferior  nature 
Usurp  or  share  the  throne  of  the  Creator. 

He  saw  the  struggling  beams  of  infant  light 
Shoot  through  the  massy  gloom  of  ancient  night ; 
His  spirit  hush'd  the  elemental  strife. 
And  brooded  o'er  the  kindling  seeds  of  life : 
Seasons  and  months  begin  the  long  procession, 
And  measured  o'er  the  year  in  bright  succession. 
32 


250  ANNA  L^TITIA   BARBAULD. 


The  joyful  sun  sprung  up  th'  ethereal  way, 
Strong  as  a  giant,  as  a  bridegroom  gay  ; 
And  the  pale  moon  diffused  her  shadowy  light, 
Superior  o'er  the  dusky  brow  of  night : 
Ten  thousand  glittering  lamps  the  skies  adorning, 
Numerous  as  dew-drops  from  the  womb  of  morning. 

Earth's  blooming  face  with  rising  flowers  He  dress'd 
And  spread  a  verdant  mantle  o'er  her  breast ; 
Then  from  the  hollow  of  His  hand  He  pours 
The  circling  waters  round  her  winding  shores  ; 
The  new-born  world  in  their  cool  arms  embracing. 
And  with  soft  murmurs  still  her  banks  caressing. 

At  length  she  rose  complete  in  flnish'd  pride. 
All  fair  and  spotless,  like  a  virgin  bride  ; 
Fresh  with  untarnish'd  lustre  as  she  stood. 
Her  Maker  bless'd  His  work  and  called  it  good : 

The  morning  stars  with  joyful  acclamation. 

Exulting  sung,  and  hail'd  the  new  creation. 

Yet  this  fair  world,  the  creature  of  a  day. 
Though  built  by  God's  right  hand,  must  pass  away ; 
And  long  oblivion  creep  o'er  mortal  things, 
The  fate  of  Empires,  and  the  pride  of  Kings ; 

Eternal  night  shall  veil  their  proudest  story, 

And  drop  the  curtain  o'er  all  human  glory. 

The  sun  himself,  with  weary  clouds  opprest, 

Shall  in  his  silent  dark  pavilion  rest ; 

His  golden  urn  shall  broke  and  useless  lie, 

Amidst  the  common  ruins  of  the  sky ! 
The  stars  rush  headlong  in  the  wild  commotion, 
And  bathe  their  glittering  foreheads  in  the  ocean. 

But  fix'd,  O  God  !  for  ever  stands  Thy  throne  ; 
Jehovah  reigns,  a  universe  alone : 


Th'  eternal  fire  that  feeds  each  vital  flame, 
Collected  or  diff'used  is  still  the  same. 
He  dwells  within  his  own  unfathom'd  essence, 
And  fills  all  space  with  His  unbounded  presence. 

But  oh  !  our  highest  notes  the  theme  debase, 
And  silence  is  our  least  injurious  praise : 
Cease,  cease  your  songs,  the  daring  flight  control, 
Revere  Him  in  the  stillness  of  the  soul. 
With  silent  duty  meekly  bend  before  Him, 
And  deep  within  your  inmost  hearts  adore  Him. 


252  LADY  ANNE  BARNARD. 


LADY  ANNE  BARNARD. 

1750—1825. 

This  lady  was  a  daughter  of  James  Lindsay,  fifth  earl  of  Bal- 
carras,  and  was  born  in  1750.  She  became  the  wife  of  Sir  An- 
drew Barnard,  librarian  to  George  the  Third,  in  the  year  1771. 
In  that  year,  or  in  the  following,  she  wrote  the  touching  ballad  of 
Jiiild  Robin  Gray ;  the  authorship  of  which  she  kept  a  secret 
until  the  year  1823,  when  she  divulged  it  to  Sir  Walter  Scott. 
Lady  Barnard  wrote  two  Continuations  to  the  ballad,  which,  how- 
ever, are  generally  considered  to  be  inferior  to  the  original  poem. 

AULD    ROBIN    GRAY. 

When  the  sheep  are  in  the  fauld,  when  the  cows  come  hame, 
When  a'  the  weary  world  to  quiet  rest  are  gane. 
The  woes  of  my  heart  fa'  in  showers  frae  my  ee, 
Unkenn'd  by  my  gudeman,  who  soundly  sleeps  by  me. 

Young  Jamie  loo'd  me  well,  and  sought  me  for  his  bride, 
But  saving  ae  crown-piece,  he  'd  naething  else  beside. 
To  make  the  crown  a  pound,  my  Jamie  gaed  to  sea; 
And  the  crown  and  the  pound,  O  they  were  baith  for  me ! 

Before  he  had  been  gane  a  twelvemonth  and  a  day, 
My  father  brak  his  arm,  our  cow  was  stown  away ; 
My  mother  she  fell  sick —  my  Jamie  was  at  sea  — 
And  auld  Robin  Gray — oh!  he  came  a-courting  me. 

My  father  cou'dna  work  —  my  mother  cou'dna  spin  ; 
I  toil'd  day  and  night,  but  their  bread  I  cou'dna  win  ; 
Auld  Rob  maintain'd  them  baith,  and,  wi   tears  in  his  ee, 
Said  "  Jenny,  oh,  for  their  sakes,  will  you  marry  me  ?" 


LADY  ANNE   BARNARD.  253 


My  heart  it  said  na,  and  I  look'd  for  Jamie  back  ; 
But  hard  blew  the  winds,  and  his  ship  was  a  wrack : 
His  ship  it  was  a  wrack  !  Why  didna  Jamie  dee  ? 
Or  wherefore  am  I  spared  to  cry  out,  Woe  is  me  ! 

My  father  argued  sair  —  my  mother  didna  speak, 
But  she  look'd  in  my  face  till  my  heart  was  like  to  break ; 
They  gied  him  my  hand,  but  my  heart  was  in  the  sea; 
And  so  auld  Robin  Gray,  he  was  gudeman  to  me. 

I  hadna  been  his  wife,  a  week  but  only  four, 

When  mournfu'  as  I  sat  on  the  stane  at  my  door, 

I  saw  my  Jamie's  ghaist  —  I  cou'dna  think  it  he, 

Till  he  said,  "  I  'm  come  hame,  my  love,  to  marry  thee  !" 

0  sair,  sair  did  we  greet,  and  mickle  say  of  a', 
Ae  kiss  we  took,  na  mair —  I  bad  him  gang  awa'. 

1  wish  that  I  were  dead,  but  I  'm  no  like  to  dee ; 
For  0,  I  'm  but  young  to  cry  out,  Woe  is  me  ! 

I  gang  like  a  ghaist,  and  I  carena  much  to  spin  ; 
I  darena  think  of  Jamie,  for  that  wad  be  a  sin. 
But  I  will  do  my  best  a  gude  wife  aye  to  be. 
For  auld  Robin  Gray,  oh !  he  is  sae  kind  to  rae. 


254  MRS.   ANNE    GRANT. 


MRS.  ANNE  GRANT, 

1755—1838, 

A  CELEBRATED  Scotch  poetess,  was  the  daughter  of  an  officer 
in  the  British  army  named  Macvicar,  and  was  born  at  Glasgow  in 
the  year  1755.  Her  father's  profession  leading  him  into  Ameri- 
ca, he  took  his  family  with  him,  and  there  Miss  Macvicar  spent 
seven  of  her  youthful  years.  Mr.  Macvicar  and  his  family  re- 
turned to  Scotland  in  1768;  and,  in  1779,  his  daughter  married 
the  Reverend  James  Grant,  who  subsequently  became  minister  of 
Laggon,  in  Inverness-shire.  The  death  of  her  husband  in  1801, 
left  Mrs.  Grant  and  her  eight  children  quite  unprovided  for  :  and 
under  these  distressing  circumstances  it  was  that  literature  (which 
had  previously  been  her  chief  amusement)  was  now  resorted  to  as 
a  means  of  subsistence.  An  education  of  rough  experience,  com- 
bined with  a  naturally  shrewd,  powerful,  and  sensitive  mind, 
made  Mrs.  Grant  a  highly  effective  and  successful  writer;  and 
the  fame  of  her  literary  abilities  (even  before  she  published  any 
fruits  of  them)  was  so  great,  that  three  thousand  persons  gave  her 
their  names  as  subscribers  to  her  poem  of  the  Highlanders.  The 
success  of  this  fine  poem  relieved  her  temporarily  from  her  em- 
barrassments, but  she  still  had  many  privations  to  bear.  In  a 
few  years  she  removed  finally  to  Edinburgh,  where  she  was  called 
upon  to  endure  worse  afllictions,  in  the  death  of  her  children, 
one  after  another,  until  only  her  youngest  son  was  left  to  her.  In 
1825,  George  the  Fourth,  at  the  instance  of  Sir  Walter  Scott  and 
other  friends,  granted  our  authoress  a  pension  of  100/.  per  annvim. 
which  she  lived  to  enjoy  until  1838,  when  she  died  in  the  eighty- 
fourth  year  of  her  age. 


MRS.  ANNE    GRANT.  255 


EXTRACT   FROM    "THE    HIGHLANDERS. 

No  hamlet  without  some  Widow,  who  is  in  a  great  measure  mpported,  and  saved 
from  the  disgrace  of  a  mendicant  life,  by  the  little  society. 

Where  yonder  ridgy  mountains  bound  the  scene, 

The  narrow  opening  glens  that  intervene 

Still  shelter,  in  some  lowly  nook  obscure, 

One  poorer  than  the  rest,  —  where  all  are  poor  ; 

Some  widow'd  Matron,  hopeless  of  relief, 

Who  to  her  secret  breast  confines  her  grief; 

Dejected  sighs  the  wintry  night  away. 

And  lonely  muses  all  the  summer  day  : 

Her  gallant  sons,  who,  smit  with  honour's  charms, 

Pursued  the  phantom  Fame  through  war's  alarms. 

Return  no  more:  stretch'd  on  Hindostan's  plain. 

Or  sunk  beneath  the'  unfathomable  main; 

In  vain  her  eyes  the  watery  waste  explore. 

For  heroes  —  fated  to  return  no  more  ! 

Let  others  bless  the  morning's  reddening  beam — 

Foe  to  her  peace,  it  breaks  the'  illusive  dream 

That,  in  their  pride  of  manly  bloom  confest, 

Reslor'd  the  long-lost  warriors  to  her  breast ; 

And  as  they  strove,  with  smiles  of  filial  love. 

Their  widow'd  parent's  anguish  to  remove, 

Through  her  small  casement  broke  the'  intrusive  day, 

And  chas'd  the  pleasing  images  away  ! 

No  time  can  e'er  her  banish'd  joys  restore, 

For,  ah  !  a  heart  once  broken  heals  no  more. 

The  dewy  beams  that  gleam  from  pity's  eye. 

The  "  still  small  voice"  of  sacred  sympathy. 

In  vain  the  mourner's  sorrows  would  beguile. 

Or  steal  from  weary  woe  one  languid  smile  ; 

Yet  what  they  can  they  do,  —  the  scanty  store, 

So  often  open'd  for  the  wandering  poor, 

To  her  each  cottager  complacent  deals. 

While  the  kind  glance  the  melting  heart  reveals  ; 


256  MRS.  ANNE    GRANT. 


And  still,  when  evening  streaks  the  west  with  gold, 
The  milky  tribute  from  the  glowing  fold 
With  cheerful  haste  officious  children  bring, 
And  every  smiling  floAver  that  decks  the  Spring : 
Ah  !  little  know  the  fond  attentive  train. 
That  Spring  and  flowrets  smile  for  her  in  vain : 
Yet  hence  they  learn  to  reverence  modest  woe, 
And  of  their  little  all  a  part  bestow. 
Let  those  to  wealth  and  proud  distinction  born, 
With  the  cold  glance  of  insolence  and  scorn 
Regard  the  suppliant  wretch,  and  harshly  grieve 
The  bleeding  heart  their  bounty  would  relieve, — 
Far  different  these  ;  —  while  from  a  bounteous  heart 
With  the  poor  sufferer  they  divide  a  part ; 
Humbly  they  own  that  all  they  have  is  given 
A  boon  precarious  from  indulgent  Heaven : 
And  the  next  blighted  crop,  or  frosty  spring, 
Themselves  to  equal  indigence  may  bring. 

It  is  not  difficult  to  distinguish  in  this  passage  a  touch  of  sim- 
ple pathos,  such  as  might  have  been  given  by  the  hand  of  Gold- 
smith. Warm,  unaffected  and  homely,  Mrs.  Grant's  strains 
might  often  be  mistaken  for  productions  of  that  fine  poet's  pen. 

Mrs.  Grant  appears  to  have  been  one  of  the  first  among  modern 
writers  who  drew  attention  to  the  striking  and  romantic  features 
of  Highland  life  and  scenery  :  and  in  this  respect  she  may  justly 
be  considered  the  precursor  of  Scott  and  those  other  writers  who 
have  since  attached  so  much  interest  to  that  subject.  Her  Let- 
ters froin  the  Mountains,  oncl  Her  Essays  on  the  Super stitions 
of  the  Highlanders,  convey  much  information,  and  exhibit  great 
abilit\'. 


MRS.   ANNE   HUNTER.  257 


MRS.   ANNE   HUNTER, 

1742—1821, 

Wife  of  the  celebrated  John  Hunter,  and  sister  of  Sir  Everard 
Home,  was  born  in  1742,  and  died  in  1821.  She  is  the  author 
of  several  very  beautiful  poems,  of  which  the  following  are 
specimens : 

TO-MORROW. 

How  heavy  falls  the  foot  of  Time  ! 
How  slow  the  lingering  quarters  chime, 

Through  anxious  hours  of  long  delay  ! 
In  vain  we  w;itch  the  silent  glass, 
More  slow  the  sands  appear  to  pass, 

While  disappointment  marks  their  way. 

To-morrow — still  the  phantom  flies. 
Flitting  away  before  our  eyes. 

Eludes  our  grasp,  is  pass'd  and  gone ; 
Daughter  of  hope.  Night  o'er  thee  flings 
The  shadow  of  her  raven  wings, 

And  in  the  morning  thou  art  flown ! 

Delusive  sprite  !  from  day  to  day, 
We  still  pursue  thy  pathless  way  : 

Thy  promise  broken  o'er  and  o'er, 
Man  still  believes,  and  is  thy  slave ; 
Nor  ends  the  chase  but  in  the  grave, 
For  there  to-morrow  is  no  more. 
33  X* 


258  MRS.   ANNE  HUNTER. 

The  fancy  contained  in  the  three  last  lines  of  the  second  stanza 
of  this  poem  has  always  appeared  to  me  particularly  happy. 
Such  fancies  are  very  frequent  in  Mrs.  Hunter's  works. 

There  is  much  sweetness,  too,  in  the  following 


I  saw  the  wild  rose  on  its  parent  thorn, 

Half-clos'd,  soft  blushing,  thro'  the  glittering  dew, 

Wave  on  the  breeze  and  scent  the  breath  of  morn ; 
Lelia,  the  lovely  flower  resembled  you. 

Scarce  had  it  spread  to  meet  the  orb  of  day. 
Its  fragrant  beauties  opening  to  the  view, 

When  ruffian  blasts  have  torn  the  rose  away :  — 
Lelia,  —  alas !  it  still  resembles  you  ! 

So  torn  by  wild  and  lawless  passion's  force 
From  every  social  tie  thy  lot  must  be ; 

At  last  oblivion  shades  thy  future  course. 
And  still  the  hapless  flower  resembles  thee ! 


The  beauty  of  the  succeeding  extracts  will  be  apparent  without 
comment. 


THE    LOT    OF    THOUSANDS. 

When  hope  lies  dead  within  the  heart, 
By  secret  sorrow  long  conceal'd, 

We  shrink  lest  looks  or  words  impart 
What  may  not  be  reveal'd. 

'T  is  hard  to  smile  when  one  would  weep, 
To  speak  when  one  would  silent  be ; 

To  wake  when  one  would  wish  to  sleep, 
And  wake  to  agony. 


srmwg  ®®"5ro 


MRS.   ANNE  HUNTER.  259 

Yet  such  the  lot  for  thousands  cast, 

Who  wander  in  this  world  of  care, 
And  bend  beneath  the  bitter  blast. 

To  save  them  from  despair. 

Yet  Nature  waits  her  guests  to  greet, 

Where  disappointment  cannot  come  ; 
And  Time  leads  with  unerring  feet 

The  weary  wanderer  home. 


THE    OCEAN    GRAVE. 

Friends  !  when  I  die  prepare  my  welcome  grave. 
Where  the  eternal  Ocean  rolls  his  wave ; 
Rough  through  the  blast,  still  let  his  free-born  breeze. 
Which  freshness  wafts  to  earth  from  endless  seas, 
Sigh  o'er  my  sleep,  and  let  his  glancing  spray 
Weep  tear-drops  sparkling  with  a  heavenly  ray ; 
A  constant  mourner  then  shall  watch  my  tomb. 
And  nature  deepen  while  it  soothes  the  gloom. 

0  let  that  element  whose  voice  had  power 

To  cheer  my  darkest,  soothe  my  loneliest  hour ; 

Which  through  my  life  my  spirit  lov'd  so  well, 

Still  o'er  my  grave  its  tale  of  glory  tell. 

The  generous  Ocean  whose  proud  waters  bear 

The  spoil  and  produce  they  disdain  to  wear. 

Whose  wave  claims  kindred  with  the  azure  sky. 

From  whom  reflected  stars  beam  gloriously ; 

Emblem  of  God  !  unchanging,  infinite. 

Awful  alike  in  loveliness  and  might ; 

Rolls  still  untiring  like  the  tide  of  Time, 

Binds  man  to  man  and  mingles  clime  with  clime  ; 

And  as  the  sun,  which  from  each  lake  and  stream, 

Through  all  the  world,  where'er  their  waters  gleam, 

Collects  the  crowd  his  heavenly  ray  conceals. 

And  slakes  the  thirst  which  all  creation  feels, 


260  MRS.   AAAE   HUNTER. 


So  Ocean  gathers  tribute  f>-om  each  shore, 

To  bid  each  climate  know  its  want  no  more. 

Exil'd  on  earth,  a  fetter' li  prisoner  here, 

Barr'd  from  all  treasures  which  my  soul  holds  dear, 

The  kindred  soul,  the  fame  my  youth  desir'd. 

Whilst  hope  hath  fled  which  once  my  bosom  fir'd  ; 

Dead  to  all  joy,  still  to  mv  fancy  glow 

Dreams  of  delight  which  heavenward  thoughts  bestow. 

Not  then  in  death  shall  I  unconscious  be 

Of  that  whose  whispers  are  Eternity. 


Far,  far  from  me  my  love  is  fled. 
In  a  light  skiflT  lie  tempts  the  sea, 

The  young  Desires  his  sails  have  spread, 
And  Hope  his  pilot  deigns  to  be. 

The  promis'd  land  of  varied  joys. 
Which  so  delights  his  fickle  mind. 

In  waking  dreams  his  days  employs. 
While  I,  poor  I,  sing  to  the  wind. 

But  young  Desires  grow  old  and  die. 

And  Hope  no  more  the  Helm  may  steer ; 

Beneath  a  dark  and  stormy  sky 
Shall  fall  the  late  repentant  tear. 

While  I,  within  my  peaceful  grot, 
May  hear  the  distant  tempest  roar, 

Contented  with  my  humble  lot. 
In  safety  on  the  friendly  shore. 


O  tuneful  voice  !  I  still  deplore 

Those  accents  which,  tliough  heard  no  more. 


MRS.   ANNE   HUNTER.  261 


Still  vibrate  on  my  heart ; 
In  echo's  cave  I  long  to  dwell, 
And  still  would  hear  the  sad  farewell 

When  we  were  doom'd  to  part. 

Bright  eyes !  0  that  the  task  were  mine 
To  guard  the  liquid  fires  tliat  shine, 

And  round  your  orbits  play ; 
To  watch  them  with  a  Vestal's  care. 
And  feed  with  smiles  a  light  so  fair, 

That  it  may  ne'er  decay. 


TO    MY    DAUGHTER, 
On  being  separated  from  her  on  her  marriage. 

Dear  to  my  heart  as  life's  warm  stream, 
Which  animates  this  mortal  clay, 

For  thee  I  court  the  waking  dream, 
And  deck  with  smiles  the  future  day ; 

And  thus  beguile  the  present  pain 

With  hopes  that  we  shall  meet  again. 

Yet  will  it  be,  as  when  the  past 

Twin'd  every  joy  and  care  and  thought. 

And  o'er  our  minds  one  mantle  cast 
Of  kind  affections  finely  wrought  ? 

Ah,  no  !  the  groundless  hope  were  vain, 

For  so  we  ne'er  can  meet  again  ! 

May  he  who  claims  thy  tender  heart 
Deserve  its  love,  as  I  have  done  ! 

For,  kind  and  gentle  as  thou  art, 
If  so  belov'd,  thou  'rt  fairly  won. 

Bright  may  the  sacred  torch  remain, 

And  cheer  thee  till  we  meet  again ! 


262  HESTER   LYNCH  PIOZZI. 


HESTER   LYNCH   PIOZZI, 

1739—1821, 

The  well-known  friend  of  Dr.  Johnson,  was  the  daughter  of 
Mr.  John  Salusbury,  of  Caernarvonshire.  She  was  born  in 
1739,  and  married,  first  Mr.  Thrale,  the  brewer,  who  was  so 
warmly  attached  to  Johnson,  and  subsequently  Signor  Piozzi,  a 
music-master. 

As  an  authoress,  she  is  chiefly  known  by  her  tale  called 

THE    THREE    WARNINGS. 

The  tree  of  deepest  root  is  found 
Least  willing  still  to  quit  the  ground  ; 
'T  was  therefore  said  by  ancient  sages. 

That  love  of  life  increas'd  with  years 
So  much,  that  in  our  latter  stages. 
When  pain  grows  sharp,  and  sickness  rages, 

The  greatest  love  of  life  appears  : 
This  great  affection  to  believe, 
Which  all  confess,  but  few  perceive, 
If  old  assertions  can't  prevail. 
Be  pleas'd  to  hear  a  modern  tale. 

When  sports  went  round,  and  all  were  gay 
On  neighbour  Dobson's  weddmg-day, 
Death  called  aside  the  jocund  groom 
With  him  into  another  room  ; 
And  looking  grave,  "You  must,"  says  he, 
"  Quit  your  sweet  bride,  and  come  with  me." 
"  With  you  !  and  quit  my  Susan's  side  ! 


.J 


"  With  you  !"  the  hapless  husband  cried  ; 
"  Young  as  I  am  —  't  is  monstrous  hard  ; 
Besides,  in  truth  I  'mnot  prepar'd; 
My  thoughts  on  other  matters  go, 
This  is  my  wedding-day,  you  know." 

What  more  he  urg'd  I  have  not  heard, 

His  reasons  could  not  well  be  stronger  ; 

So  Death  the  poor  delinquent  spar'd, 

And  left  to  live  a  little  longer. 

Yet,  calling  up  a  serious  look. 

His  hour-glass  trembled  while  he  spoke, 

"  Neighbour,"  he  said,  "farewell !  no  more 

Shall  Death  disturb  your  mirthful  hour : 

And  farther,  to  avoid  all  blame 

Of  cruelty  upon  my  name. 

To  give  you  time  for  preparation, 

And  fit  you  for  your  future  station, 

Three  several  warnings  you  shall  have, 

Before  you  're  summoned  to  the  grave : 

Willing  for  once  I  '11  quit  my  prey. 

And  grant  a  kind  reprieve  ; 
In  hopes  you  '11  have  no  more  to  say, 
But  when  I  call  again  this  way, 

Well  pleas'd  the  world  will  leave." 
To  these  conditions  both  consented. 
And  parted,  perfecdy  contented. 

What  next  the  hero  of  our  tale  befell, 
How  long  he  liv'd,  how  wise,  how  well, 
How  roundly  he  pursued  his  course. 
And  smok'd  his  pipe,  and  strok'd  his  horse, 

The  willing  Muse  shall  tell : 
He  chaffer'd  then,  he  bought,  he  sold, 
Nor  once  perceiv'd  his  growing  old, 

Nor  thought  of  Death  as  near  : 
His  friends  not  false,  his  wife  no  shrew. 
Many  his  gains,  his  children  few, 


264  HESTER   LYNCH  PIOZZI. 

He  passed  his  hours  in  peace  : 
But  while  he  view'd  his  weahh  increase, 
While  thus  along  Life's  dusty  road 
The  beaten  track  content  he  trod, 
Old  Time,  whose  haste  no  mortal  spares, 
Uncall'd,  unheeded,  unawares. 

Brought  on  his  eightieth  year. 

And  now,  one  night,  in  musing  mood, 

As  all  alone  he  sat. 
The  unwelcome  messenger  of  fate 

Once  more  before  him  stood. 

Half  kill'd  with  anger  and  surprise, 
"  So  soon  return'd  !"  old  Dobson  cries  ; 
"  So  soon  d'ye  call  it  ?"  Death  replies  ; 
"  Surely,my  friend,  you 're  but  in  jest! 

Since  I  was  here  before, 
'T  is  six  and  thirty  years  at  least, 

And  you  are  now  fourscore." 
"  So  much  the  worse,"  the  clown  rejoin'd, 
"  To  spare  the  aged  would  be  kind  ; 
However,  see  your  search  be  legal ; 
And  your  authority  —  is  't  regal  ? 
Else  you  are  come  on  a  fool's  errand. 
With  but  a  secretary's  warrant ; 
Besides,  you  promis'd  me  Three  Warnings, 
Which  I  have  look'd  for  nights  and  mornings  ! 
But  for  that  loss  of  time  and  ease, 
I  can  recover  damages." 

"  I  know,"  cries  Death,  "  that  at  the  best, 

I  seldom  am  a  welcome  guest ; 

But  don't  be  captious,  friend,  at  least : 

I  little  thought  you  'd  still  be  able 

To  stump  about  your  farm  and  stable  ; 

Your  years  have  run  to  a  great  length, 

I  wish  you  joy,  though,  of  your  strength  !" 


HESTER  LYNCH  PIOZZI.  265 

"  Hold  "  —  says  the  farmer,  "  not  so  fast ! 

I  have  been  lame  these  four  years  past." 

"  And  no  great  wonder,"  Death  replies, 

"  However,  you  still  keep  your  eyes  : 

And  sure  to  see  one's  loves  and  friends, 

For  legs  and  arms  would  make  amends  !" 

"  Perhaps,"  says  Dobson,  "so  it  might, 

But  latterly  I  've  lost  my  sight." 

"  This  is  a  shocking  story,  'faith. 

But  there's  some  comfort  still,"  says  Death; 

"  Each  strive  your  sadness  to  amuse, 

I  warrant  you  hear  all  the  news !" 

"  There  's  none,"  cries  he,  "  and  if  there  were, 

I  'm  grown  so  deaf,  I  could  not  hear." 

"Nay  then,"  the  spectre  stern  rejoin'd, 

"  These  are  unjustifiable  yearnings  ; 

If  you  are  lame,  and  deaf,  and  blind, 

You  've  had  your  Three  sufficient  Warnings  , 

So,  come  along!  no  more  we  '11  part !" 

He  said,  and  touch'd  him  with  his  dart ; 

And  now  old  Dobson,  turning  pale, 

Yields  to  his  fate  —  so  ends  my  tale, 

S4  Y 


266  ANN   RADCLIFFE. 


ANN  RADCLIFFE, 

1764—1823, 

Whose  fame  rests,  as  needs  hardly  to  be  said,  upon  her  splendid 
but  terrible  novels  of  The  Italian  and  The  Mysteries  of  Udolpho, 
was  a  poetess  of  no  mean  pretensions.  The  pieces  of  verse 
interspersed  in  her  various  romances  display  the  same  peculiar 
powers  which  characterise  her  prose  compositions ;  they  are 
marked  by  great  energy  of  imagination,  and  rich  eloquence  of 
style. 

Mrs.  Radcliffe  was  born  in  London,  in  1764,  of  a  respectable 
family  named  Ward.  She  married  Mr.  Radcliffe,  a  law-student, 
in  1787  :  and  died  in  1823. 

TO    THE    WINDS. 

Viewless,  through  Heaven's  vast  vault  your  course  ye  steer, 

Unknown  from  whence  ye  come,  or  whither  go ! 

Mysterious  powers  !  I  hear  you  murmur  low. 

Till  swells  your  loud  gust  on  my  startled  ear, 

And,  awful,  seems  to  say  —  some  God  is  near  ! 

I  love  to  list  your  midnight  voices  float 

In  the  dread  storm  that  o'er  the  ocean  rolls, 

And,  while  their  charm  the  angry  wave  controls. 

Mix  with  its  sullen  roar,  and  sink  remote. 

Then,  rising  in  the  pause,  a  sweeter  note. 

The  dirge  of  spirits,  who  your  deeds  bewail, 

A  sweeter  note  oft  swells  wliile  sleeps  the  gale  ! 

But  soon,  ye  sightless  powers  !  your  rest  is  o'er, 

Solemn  and  slow,  ye  rise  upon  the  air, 


ANN   RADCLIFFE.  267 


Speak  in  the  shrouds,  and  bid  the  sea-boy  fear, 
And  the  faint-warbled  dirge  —  is  heard  no  more  ! 

Oh  !  then  I  deprecate  your  awful  reign  ! 

The  loud  lament  yet  bear  not  on  your  breath ! 

Bear  not  the  crash  of  bark  far  on  the  main, 

Bear  not  the  cry  of  men,  who  cry  in  vain, 

The  crew's  dread  chorus  sinking  into  death ! 

Oh  !  give  not  these,  ye  powers  !    I  ask  alone. 

As  rapt  I  climb  these  dark  romantic  steeps. 

The  elemental  war,  the  billow's  moan ; 

I  ask  the  still,  sweet  tear,  that  listening  Fancy  weeps. 


THE    GLOW-WORM. 


How  pleasant  is  the  green-wood's  deep-matted  shade 
On  a  midsummer's  eve  when  the  fresh  rain  is  o'er ; 

When  the  yellow  beams  slope,  and  sparkle  through  the  glade, 
And  swiftly  in  the  thin  air  the  ligh  swallows  soar ! 

But  sweeter,  sweeter  still,  when  the  sun  sinks  to  rest. 
And  twilight  comes  on,  with  the  fairies  so  gay 

Tripping  through  the  forest-walk,  where  flowers  unprest 
Bow  not  their  tall  heads  beneath  their  frolic  play. 

To  music's  softest  sounds  they  dance  away  the  hour. 
Till  moonlight  steals  down  among  the  trembling  leaves. 

And  checkers  all  the  ground,  and  guides  them  to  the  bower. 
The  long-haunted  bower,  where  the  nightingale  grieves. 

Then  no  more  they  dance,  till  her  sad  song  is  done, 
But,  silent  as  the  night,  to  her  mourning  attend  ; 

And  often  as  her  dying  notes  their  pity  have  won, 

They  vow  all  her  sacred  haunts  from  mortals  to  defend. 


268  ANN    RADCLIFFE. 


When,  down  among  the  mountains,  sinks  the  evening  star, 
And  the  changing  moon  forsakes  this  shadowy  sphere, 

How  cheerless  would  they  be,  though  they  fairies  are, 
If  I,  with  my  pale  light,  came  not  near  ! 

Yet  cheerless  though  they  'd  be,  they  're  ungrateful  to  my  love  ! 

For,  often  when  the  traveller  's  benighted  on  his  way. 
And  I  glimmer  in  his  path,  and  would  guide  him  through  the  grove, 

They  bind  me  in  their  magic  spells  to  lead  him  far  astray ; 

And  in  the  mire  to  leave  him,  till  the  stars  are  all  burnt  out. 
While  in  strange-looking  shapes,  they  frisk  about  the  ground, 

And  afar  in  the  woods  they  raise  a  dismal  shout. 

Till  I  shrink  into  my  cell  again,  for  terror  of  the  sound  ! 

But,  see  where  all  the  tiny  elves  come  dancing  in  a  ring. 
With  the  merry,  merry  pipe,  and  the  tabour,  and  the  horn, 

And  the  timbrel  so  clear,  and  the  lute  with  dulcet  string. 
Then  round  about  the  oak  they  go  till  peeping  of  the  morn. 

Down  yonder  glade  two  lovers  steal,  to  shun  the  fairy  queen, 
Who  frowns  upon  their  plighted  vows,  and  jealous  is  of  me, 

That  yester  eve  I  lighted  them,  along  the  dewy  green. 

To  seek  the  purple  flower  whose  juice  from  all  her  spells  can  free. 

And  now  to  punish  me,  she  keeps  afar  her  jocund  band, 
With  the  merry,  merry  pipe,  and  the  tabour,  and  the  lute ; 

If  I  creep  near  yonder  oak  she  will  wave  her  fairy  wand. 
And  to  me  the  dance  will  cease,  and  the  music  all  be  mute. 

Oh  !  had  I  but  that  purple  flower  whose  leaves  her  charms  can  foil. 
And  knew  like  fays  to  draw  the  juice,  and  throw  it  on  the  wind, 

I  'd  be  her  slave  no  longer,  nor  the  traveller  beguile, 
And  help  all  faithful  lovers,  nor  fear  the  fairy  kind ! 

But  soon  the  vapour  of  the  woods  will  wander  afar, 
And  the  fickle  moon  wiU  fade,  and  the  stars  disappear, 

Then,  cheerless  will  they  be,  though  they  fairies  are. 
If  I  with  ray  pale  light  come  not  near  ! 


ANN   RADCLIFFE.  269 


SONG    OF    A    SPIRIT. 


In  the  sightless  air  I  dwell, 

On  the  sloping  sunbeams  play ; 
Delve  the  cavern's  inmost  cell, 

Where  never  yet  did  daylight  stray. 

I  dive  beneath  the  green  sea-waves, 

And  gambol  in  the  briny  deeps ; 
Skim  every  shore  that  Neptune  laves, 

From  Lapland's  plains  to  India's  steeps. 

Oft  I  mount  with  rapid  force, 

Above  the  wide  earth's  shadowy  zone ; 

Follow  the  day-star's  flaming  course, 

Through  realms  of  space  to  thought  unknown. j 

And  listen  to  celestial  sounds 

That  swell  in  air,  unheard  of  men, 
As  I  watch  my  nightly  rounds 

O'er  woody  steep  and  silent  glen. 

Under  the  shade  of  waving  trees, 
On  the  green  bank  of  fountain  clear, 

At  pensive  eve  I  sit  at  ease. 

While  dying  music  murmurs  near. 

And  oft,  on  point  of  airy  clift 

That  hangs  upon  the  western  main, 

I  watch  the  gay  tints  passing  swift. 
And  twilight  veil  the  liquid  plain. 

Then,  when  the  breeze  has  sunk  away. 
And  Ocean  scarce  is  heard  to  lave. 

For  me  the  sea-nymphs  softly  play 
Their  dulcet  shells  beneath  the  wave. 


270  ANN   RADCLIFFE. 


Their  dulcet  shells  !  — I  hear  them  now ; 

Slow  swells  the  strain  upon  mine  ear  ; 
Now  faintly  falls  —  now  warbles  low, 

Till  rapture  melts  into  a  tear. 

The  ray  that  silvers  o'er  the  dew, 

And  trembles  through  the  leafy  shade, 

And  tints  the  scene  with  softer  hue. 
Calls  me  to  rove  the  lonely  glade; 

Or  hie  me  to  some  ruin'd  tower, 
Faintly  shown  by  moonlight  gleam. 

When  the  lone  wanderer  owns  my  power, 
In  shadows  dire  that  substance  seem ; 

In  thrilling  sounds  that  murmur  woe. 
And  pausing  silence  make  more  dread ; 

In  music  breathing  from  below 

Sad,  solemn  strains,  that  wake  the  dead. 


Unseen  I  move  —  unknown  am  fear'd  ; 

Fancy's  wildest  dreams  I  weave ; 
And  oft  by  bards  my  voice  is  heard 

To  die  along  the  gales  of  eve. 


MRS.   HENRY   ROLLS.  271 


MRS.    HENRY    ROLLS. 

I  AM  not  able  to  give  any  account  at  all  of  this  lady.  The  fol- 
lowing productions  have  been  extracted  from  common-place 
books :  the  poetry,  however,  is  any  thing  but  common-place. 


There  is  a  sigh  —  that  half  supprest. 
Seems  scarce  to  heave  the  bosom  fair ; 

It  rises  from  the  spotless  breast. 
The  first  fair  dawn  of  tender  care. 

There  is  a  sigh  — so  soft,  so  sweet. 
It  breathes  not  from  the  lip  of  woe ; 

'T  is  heard  where  conscious  lovers  meet. 
Whilst  yet  untold  young  passions  glow. 

There  is  a  sigh  —  short,  deep  and  strong, 

That  on  the  lip  of  rapture  dies  ; 
It  floats  mild  evening's  shade  along. 

When  meet  the  fond  consenting  eyes. 

There  is  a  sigh  —  that  speaks  regret. 
Yet  seems  scarce  conscious  of  its  pain  ; 

It  tells  of  bliss  remember'd  yet. 

Of  bliss  that  ne'er  must  wake  again. 

There  is  a  sigh — that,  deeply  breathed, 
Bespeaks  the  bosom's  secret  woe  ; 

It  says  the  flowers  which  Love  had  wreathed, 
Are  wither'd,  ne'er  again  to  blow. 


272  MRS.  HENRY   ROLLS. 


There  is  a  sigh  —  that  slowly  swells, 
Then  deeply  breathes  its  load  of  care ; 

It  speaks  that  in  that  bosom  dwells 

That  last,  worst  pang,  fond  love's  despair. 


What  is  that  smile  that  o'er  the  cheek 
Of  artless  blooming  childhood  strays  ; 

That  revels  in  the  dimple  sleek  — 

That  charms  the  mother's  tender  gaze  ? 

'Tis  the  bright  sun  of  April's  morn. 

That  rises  with  unsullied  ray  ; 
Nor  marks  the  clouds,  that  swift  are  borne, 

To  wrap  in  shades  the  future  day  ! 

What  is  that  soft,  that  languid  smile, 
That  mingles  with  a  tender  sigh  ; 

Light  spreads  the  timid  blush  the  while, 
And  sweetly  sinks  the  melting  eye  ? 

'T  is  the  bright  dew-drop  on  the  rose. 
Sweet  remnant  of  the  early  shower, 

That  will  its  ripen'd  leaves  unclose, 

And  to  full  fragrance  spread  the  flower ! 

What  is  that  smile,  whose  rapturous  glow 
Passion's  impetuous  breast  inspires, 

Whilst  Pleasure's  gaudy  blossoms  blow. 
And  the  eye  beams  with  guilty  fires  ? 

'T  is  the  volcano's  baleful  blaze 
That  pours  around  a  fatal  light ; 

Whose  victim  dies  that  stops  to  gaze; 
Whence  safety  is  but  found  in  flight ! 


MRS.   HENRY   ROLLS.  273 

Whence  is  that  sad,  that  transient  smile 

That  dawns  upon  the  lip  of  woe ; 
That  checks  the  deep-drawn  sigh  awhile, 

And  stays  the  tear  that  starts  to  flow  ? 

'T  is  but  a  veil  cast  o'er  the  heart. 

When  youth's  gay  dreams  have  pass'd  away  : 
When  joy's  faint  lingering  rays  depart. 

And  the  last  gleams  of  hope  decay ! 

What  is  that  bright,  that  fearful  smile. 

Quick  flashing  o'er  the  brow  of  care ; 
When  fades  each  fruit  of  mental  toil. 

And  nought  remains  to  check  despair  ? 

'Tis  the  wild  lurid  lightning's  gleam, 

Swift  bursting  from  a  stormy  cloud  ; 
That  spreads  a  bright  destructive  beam. 

Then  sinks  into  its  sable  shroud  ! 

What  is  that  smile,  calm,  fix'd  at  last, 

On  the  hoar  brow  of  reverend  age, 
When  the  world's  changing  scenes  are  past, 

And  nearly  clos'd  life's  varied  page  ? 

'T  is  the  rich  glowing  western  beam. 

Bright  spreading  o'er  the  dark'ning  skies  ; 

That  shows,  by  its  mild  parting  gleam, 
A  cloudless  heavenly  morn  shall  rise ! 


THE    WARRIORS     SONG. 


Fill  high  the  bowl !  't  is  perhaps  the  last 
The  kindred  warriors  e'er  may  drain  ! 

Oh,  when  to-morrow's  fight  is  past, 

How  few  to  pledge  it  may  remain ! 
35 


274  MRS.   HENRY   ROLLS. 


Fill  high  the  bowl !  't  is  perhaps  the  last 
That  Beauty's  hand  may  yield  to  thine ! 

Oh,  when  it  o'er  her  lip  has  pass'd, 
It  gives  a  joy  more  sweet  than  wine. 

Fill  high  the  bowl !  't  is  perhaps  the  last 
That  will  beneath  this  roof  be  crown'd ; 

Soon  the  wild  breeze  that  murmurs  past 
May  sweep  its  ruin'd  wall  around. 

Fill  high  the  bowl !  't  is  perhaps  the  last 
In  which  we  hail  our  fathers'  fame  ; 

Oh,  when  't  is  by  our  children  pass'd. 
May  added  glories  gild  their  name  ! 

Fill  high  the  bowl  !  't  is  perhaps  the  last  — 
In  it  come  pledge  the  hero's  grave  ! 

For  him  Death's  pang,  ere  felt,  is  past, 
It  lingers  only  to  the  slave. 


LADY  BURRELL.  275 


LADY    BURRELL 

Wrote  two  volumes  of  poems,  in  1793.  They  display  conside- 
rable liveliness  of  fancy,  but  are  occasionally  coarse  and  vulgar. 
The  two  poems  which  the  reader  finds  below  are  about  the  best 
in  the  collection. 

CHLOE    AND    MYRA. 

Chloe  is  elegant  and  pretty. 

But  silly  and  affected  ; 
Myra  is  sensible  and  witty, 

And  by  the  wise  respected. 

When  pretty  Chloe  I  behold, 

I  think  myself  her  lover  ; 
But  ere  I  have  my  passion  told. 

Her  failings  I  discover. 

When  Myra  talks,  I'm  pleased  to  hear, 

And  venerate  her  mind  : 
But  in  her  face  no  charms  appear, 

My  wavering  heart  to  bind. 

Blindfold  I  should  to  Myra  run, 

And  swear  to  love  her  ever  ; 
Yet  when  the  bandage  was  undone, 
Should  only  think  her  clever. 

With  the  full  usage  of  my  eyes, 

I  Chloe  should  decide  for  ; 
But  when  she  talks,  I  her  despise. 

Whom,  dumb,  I  could  have  died  for  ! 


276  LADY  BURRELL, 


My  ear  or  eye  must  tortur'd  be 
If  I  make  choice  of  either  ; 

'T  is  therefore  best  I  should  agree 
Ladies  !  — to  marry  neither  ! 


TO    EMMA. 

Why,  pretty  rogue  !  do  you  protest 
The  trick  of  stealing  you  detest? 
'T  is  what  you  are  doing  every  day, 
Either  in  earnest  or  in  play. 
Cupid  and  you,  't  is  said,  are  cousins, 
[Aufait  in  stealing  hearts  by  dozens,) 
Who  make  no  more  of  shooting  sparks, 
Than  schoolboys  do  of  wounding  larks  ; 
Nay,  what  is  worse,  't  is  my  belief. 
Though  known  to  be  an  arrant  thief, 
Such  powers  of  witchcraft  are  your  own, 
That  Justice  slumbers  on  her  throne  ; 
And  should  you  be  arraign'd  in  court 
For  practising  this  cruel  sport, 
In  spite  of  all  the  plaintiff's  fury 
Your  smile  would  bribe  both  judge  and  jury. 


LUCY  AIKIN.  277 


LUCY  AIKIN, 

The  daughter  of  Dr.  John  Aikin,  and  niece  of  Mrs.  Barbauld, 
seems  to  have  inherited  no  small  share  of  the  genius  of  her  family. 
Miss  Aikin  has  been  engaged  in  various  literary  undertakings, 
in  none  of  which  perhaps  has  she  been  more  successful  than  in 
her  Poetry  for  Children,  which  is,  probably,  the  most  difficult 
style  of  verse  that  can  be  attempted.  Miss  Aikin  very  ably 
avoids  a  too  great  simplicity  on  the  one  hand,  and  a  too  refined 
diction  on  the  other :  and  thus  grasps  the  youthful  mind  with  a 
sure  hold. 

THE  BEGGAR    MAN. 

Around  the  fire,  one  winter  night. 

The  farmer's  rosy  children  sat ; 
The  faggot  lent  its  blazing  light. 

And  jokes  went  round,  and  careless  chat. 

When,  hark  !  a  gentle  hand  they  hear 

Low  tapping  at  the  bolted  door ; 
And  thus  to  gain  their  willing  ear, 

A  feeble  voice  was  heard  t'  implore  :  — 

"  Cold  blows  the  blast  across  the  moor : 
The  sleet  drives  hissing  in  the  wind  : 
Yon  toilsome  mountain  lies  before ; 
A  dreary  treeless  waste  behind. 

"  My  eyes  are  weak  and  dim  with  age ; 
No  road,  no  path,  can  I  descry ; 
And  these  poor  rags  ill  stand  the  rage 
Of  such  a  keen  inclement  sky. 
z 


278  LUCY  AIKIN. 


"  So  faint  I  am  —  these  tottering  feet 
No  more  my  feeble  frame  can  bear ; 
My  sinking  heart  forgets  to  beat, 

And  drifting  snows  my  tomb  prepare. 

"  Open  your  hospitable  door : 

And  shield  me  from  the  biting  blast ; 
Cold,  cold  it  blows  across  the  moor 
The  weary  moor  that  I  have  pass'd !  " 

With  hasty  step  the  farmer  ran, 

And  close  beside  the  fire  they  place 

The  poor  half-frozen  beggar-man. 
With  shaking  limbs  and  pallid  face. 

The  little  children  flocking  came. 

And  warm'd  his  stiff"ening  hands  in  theirs  ; 
And  busily  the  good  old  dame 

A  comfortable  mess  prepares. 

Their  kindness  cheer'd  his  drooping  soul ; 

And  slowly  down  his  wrinkled  cheek 
The  big  round  tears  were  seen  to  roll, 

And  told  the  thanks  he  could  not  speak. 

The  children,  too,  began  to  sigh. 
And  all  their  merry  chat  was  o'er ; 

And  yet  they  felt,  they  knew  not  why, 
More  glad  than  they  had  done  before. 


This  last  verse  has  quite  the  manner  and  spirit  of  Words- 
worth :  indeed,  the  whole  composition  is  full  of  the  finest  and 
most  tender  feeling. 


LUCY  AIKIN.  279 


As  a  sample  of  the  clever  manner  in  which  Miss  Aikin  com- 
bines information  with  amusement,  I  select  her  little  poem  called 


O'er  Arabia's  desert  sands 

The  patient  camel  walks  ; 
Mid  lonely  caves  and  rocky  lands 

The  fell  hyaena  stalks. 
On  the  cool  and  shady  hills 

Coffee  shrubs  and  tamarinds  grow, 
Headlong  fall  the  welcome  rills 

Down  the  fruitful  dells  below. 

The  fragrant  myrrh  and  healing  balm 

Perfume  the  passing  gale  ; 
Thick  hung  with  dates,  the  spreading  palm 

Tow'rs  o'er  the  peopled  vale. 
Locusts  oft,  a  living  cloud. 

Hover  in  the  darken'd  air; 
Like  a  torrent  dashing  loud, 

Bringing  famine  and  despair. 

And  often  o'er  the  level  waste 

The  stifling  hot  winds  fly  ; 
Down  falls  the  swain  with  trembling  haste, 

The  gasping  cattle  die. 
Shepherd  people  on  the  plain 

Pitch  their  tents  and  wander  free ; 
Wealthy  cities  they  disdain. 

Poor,  —  yet  blest  with  liberty. 


280  MRS.  AMELU   OPIE. 


MRS.  AMELIA   OPIE. 

This  estimable  lady,  who  is  a  member  of  the  Society  of 
Friends,  is  chiefly  known  for  her  admirable  prose  stories,  in 
which  is  contained  a  pure,  simple,  and  sweet  morality,  not  sur- 
passed by  any  writer  in  our  literature.  She,  however,  published, 
in  1802,  a  volume  of  miscellaneous  Poems,  and,  in  1834,  a  work 
entitled  "  Lays  for  the  Dead,''''  both  of  which  are  characterised 
by  ^eat  tenderness  and  grace  of  feeling.  Her  song  of  The  Or- 
phan Boy  is  one  of  the  most  touching  productions  contained  in 
our  language. 


THE    ORPHAN    BOy's    TALE. 

Stay,  Lady,  stay  for  mercy's  sake, 

And  hear  a  helpless  orphan's  tale  ; 
Ah  !  sure  my  looks  must  pity  wake, 

'T  is  want  that  makes  my  cheek  so  pale. 
Yet  I  was  once  a  mother's  pride, 

And  my  brave  father's  hope  and  joy  ; 
But  in  the  Nile's  proud  fight  he  died, 

And  I  am  now  an  orphan  boy. 

Poor  foolish  child  !  how  pleas'd  was  I, 

When  news  of  Nelson's  victory  came, 
Along  the  crowded  streets  to  fly, 

And  see  the  lighted  windows  flame  ! 
To  force  me  home  my  mother  sought, 

She  could  not  bear  to  see  my  joy  ; 
For  with  my  father's  life  't  was  bought, 

And  made  me  a  poor  orphan  boy. 


The  people's  shouts  were  long  and  loud, 

My  mother  shuddering  closed  her  ears  ; 
"Rejoice,  rejoice,"  still  cried  the  crowd, 

My  mother  answer'd  with  her  tears. 
♦'  Why  are  you  crying  thus,"  said  I, 

"While  otliers  laugh  and  sliout  with  joy  ?" 
She  kiss'd  me  —  and  with  such  a  sigh! 

She  call'd  me  her  poor  orphan  boy. 

"  What  is  an  orphan  boy  ?"  T  cried. 

As  in  her  face  I  look'd  and  smil'd  ; 
My  mother  through  her  tears  replied, 

"  You  '11  know  too  soon,  ill  fated  child  !" 
And  now  they  've  toU'd  my  mother's  knell. 

And  I  'm  no  more  a  parent's  joy, 
0  Lady !  I  have  learnt  too  well 

What't  is  to  be  an  orphan  boy. 

O  were  I  by  your  bounty  fed  ! 

—  Nay,  gentle  Lady,  do  not  chide, — 
Trust  me,  I  mean  to  earn  my  bread  ; 

The  sailor's  orphan  boy  has  pride. 
Lady,  you  weep  !  —  ha  !  —  this  to  me  ? 

You  '11  give  me  clothing,  food,  employ  ? 
Look  down,  dear  parents  !  look  and  see 

Your  happy,  happy  orphan  boy. 


It  is  a  fault  of  the  Female  Poets  of  the  last  century  that  they 
expended  their  strength  rather  on  sentiment  than  on  feeling.  This 
makes  most  of  the  verse  which  they  produced,  appear  tame  and 
unimpassioned  ;  and  it  is  a  reason,  perhaps  the  chief  reason,  why 
so  many  of  their  names  have  nearly  passed  into  oblivion  :  for 
sentiment  is,  in  its  very  nature,  evanescent:  and,  even  when 
pnintcd  in  its  brightest  colours,  lasts  but  a  little  while.  It  is 
a  phosphorescent  flame,  flashing  for  a  moment  through  the  mental 
atmosphere,  but  giving  neither  warmth  nor  light:  Avhilst  true 
passion  is  a  ray  shot  from  the  everlasting  sun  of  the  spiritual 
36  z* 


282  MRS.  AiMELIA   OPIE. 


firmament,  shedding-  a  glow  and  a  brightness  upon  all  time.     Of 
this  true  sterling  sort  is  the  pathos  of  Mrs.  Opie. 


SONG. 


Go,  youth  belov'd,  in  distant  glades 

New  friends,  new  hopes,  new  joys  to  find ! 
Yet  sometimes  deign,  'midst  fairer  maids. 

To  think  on  her  thou  leav'st  behind. 
Thy  love,  thy  fate,  dear  youth,  to  share 

Must  never  be  my  happy  lot; 
But  thou  mayst  grant  this  humble  prayer, 

Forget  me  not,  forget  me  not. 

Yet,  should  the  thought  of  my  distress 

Too  painful  to  thy  feelings  be. 
Heed  not  the  wish  I  now  express. 

Nor  ever  deign  to  think  on  me  : 
But,  oh  !  if  grief  thy  steps  attend, 

If  want,  if  sickness  be  thy  lot. 
And  thou  require  a  soothing  friend. 

Forget  me  not,  forget  me  not ! 

From  Mrs.  Opie's  numerous  devotional  poems  I  extract  the 
subjoined 

HYMN. 

There  's  not  a  leaf  within  the  bower  ; 

There  's  not  a  bird  upon  the  tree  ; 
There  's  not  a  dewdrop  on  the  flower. 

But  bears  the  impress.  Lord !  of  Thee. 

Thy  hand  the  varied  leaf  design'd. 

And  gave  the  bird  its  thrilling  tone : 
Thy  power  the  dewdrop's  tints  combined, 

Till  like  a  diamond's  blaze  they  shone. 


MRS.   AMELIA   OPIE.  283 


Yes :  dewdrops,  leaves,  and  birds,  and  all, 
The  smallest  like  the  greatest  things ; 

The  sea's  vast  space,  the  earth's  wide  ball, 
Alike  proclaim  Thee  King  of  Kings. 

But  man  alone  to  bounteous  Heaven 

Thanksgiving's  conscious  strains  can  raise  ; 

To  favour'd  man  alone  'tis  given 
To  join  the  angelic  choir  in  praise. 

Mrs.  Opie's  poems  bear  fresh  evidence  to  the  truth  of  an 
assertion  more  than  once  made  in  this  work,  that  woman's  moral 
sentiments  are  generally  in  advance  of  man's.  Those  who  doubt 
the  fact  will  do  well  to  remember  how  continually  man's  verse 
celebrates  the  infernal  glories  of  war,  the  cruel  excitements  of  the 
chase,  or  the  selfish  pleasures  of  bacchanalian  enjoyment;  and, 
on  the  other  hand,  how  unceasingly  woman's  verse  exposes  the 
wickedness  and  folly  of  such  pursuits.  Very  rarely  do  we  find 
in  the  writings  of  the  male  sex,  passages  like  the  following,  though 
we  continually  see  similar  sentiments  in  the  works  of  our  female 
writers :  — 

Alas !  to  think  one  Christian  soul 

At  War's  red  shrine  can  worship  still. 

Nor  heed,  though  seas  of  carnage  roll. 

Those  awful  words  —  "  Thou  shalt  not  kill  ! " 

O  Lord  of  all,  and  Prince  of  Peace, 

Speed,  speed  the  long-predicted  day. 
When  War  throughout  the  world  shall  cease, 

And  Love  shall  hold  eternal  sway  ! 

Mrs.  Opie's  Lays  for  the  Dead  is  a  book  of  truest  beauty  :  and, 
although  the  perusal  of  it  resembles  (from  the  mournfulness  of  its 
subjects)  a  visit  to  a  churchyard,  the  effect  it  produces  upon  us  is 
of  a  most  pleasing  character.  It  hushes  all  unquiet  emotion  ; 
bids  the  cares  of  earth  far  into  the  distance  ;  and  awakens  a  calm 
sweet  pensiveness  of  feeling,  which  nothing  could  make  us  wish 


284  MRS.  AMELIA   OPIE. 


to  change.     We  seem  to  converse  with  the  Past  and  the  Departed, 
and  to  stand  on  the  very  shore  of  the  great  ocean  of  Eternity. 

It  is  very  difficult  to  select  fair  samples  of  this  book ;  for  it  is 
as  a  whole  that  its  exquisite  beauty  is  apparent :  but  I  nevertheless 
subjoin  two  extracts,  to  show  the  pure  tone  which  marks  the 
volume. 


REMEMBRANCE. 

Where'er  I  stray,  thou  dear  departed  one, 
I  see  thy  form,  thy  voice  I  seem  to  hear ! 
And  though  thou  art  to  brighter  regions  gone, 
Thy  smile  still  charms  my  eye,  thy  tones  my  ear ! 

Whene'er  adown  thy  favourite  walk  I  go. 
Still,  still  I  feel  the  pressure  of  tliy  arm  ; 
And  oh  !  so  strong  the  sweet  illusions  grow, 
I  shun,  I  loathe  whatever  breaks  the  charm. 

In  vain  I  'm  urged  to  join  the  social  scene; 
This  silent  shade  alone  has  charms  for  me: 
I  love  to  be  where  I  willi  thee  have  been ; 
And  home,  though  desolate,  is  full  of  thee  ! 

It  is  not  difficult  to  perceive  that  the  foregoing,  as  well  as  the 
following,  lines  refer  to  her  excellent  husband,  the  late  John  Opie, 
of  the  Royal  Academy.  It  is  impossible  for  sentiment  to  be 
more  exquisitely  feminine  than  this  : 

A    LAMENT. 

There  was  an  eye,  whose  partial  glance 
Could  ne'er  my  numerous  failings  see  ; 
There  was  an  ear  that  heard  untired 
When  others  spoke  in  praise  of  me. 

There  was  a  heart  time  only  taught 
With  warmer  love  for  me  to  burn ; 


A  heart  whene'er  from  home  I  roved 
Which  fondly  pmed  for  my  return. 

There  was  a  lip  which  always  breathed, 
E'en  short  farewells  in  tones  of  sadness  ; 
There  was  a  voice  whose  eager  sound 
My  welcome  spoke  with  heartfelt  gladness 

There  was  a  mind  whose  vigorous  power 
On  mine  its  own  effulgence  threw, 
And  called  my  humble  talents  forth. 
While  thence  its  dearest  joys  it  drew. 

There  was  a  love,  which  for  my  weal 
With  anxious  fears  would  overflow  ; 
Which  wept,  which  pray'd,  for  me,  and  sought 
From  future  ills  to  guard  —  But  now  !  — 

That  eye  is  closed,  and  deaf  that  ear. 
That  lip  and  voice  are  mute  for  ever; 
And  cold  that  heart  of  anxious  love, 
Which  death  alone  from  mine  could  sever : 

And  lost  to  me  that  ardent  mind, 
Which  loved  my  various  tasks  to  see  ; 
And  oh  !  of  all  the  praise  I  gain'd. 
His  was  the  dearest  far  to  me  1 

Now  I  unloved,  uncheer'd,  alone, 
Life's  dreary  wilderness  must  tread. 
Till  He  who  heals  the  broken  heart 
In  mercy  bids  me  join  the  dead. 

O  Thou !  who  from  thy  throne  on  high, 
Can'st  heed  the  mourner's  deep  distress  ; 
O  Thou,  who  hear'st  the  widow's  cry. 
Thou  !  Father  of  the  fatherless  ! 


286  MRS.  AMELIA  OPIE. 


Though  now  I  am  a  faded  leaf, 
That 's  sever'd  from  its  parent  tree, 
And  thrown  upon  a  stormy  tide, 
Life's  awful  tide  that  leads  to  Thee  !  — 

Still,  gracious  Lord  !  the  voice  of  praise 
Shall  spring  spontaneous  from  my  breast ; 
Since,  though  I  tread  a  weary  way, 
I  trust  that  he  I  mourn  is  blest. 


JOANNA  BAILLIE.  287 


JOANNA  BAILLIE. 

This  distinguished  lady,  in  many  respects  the  most  remarkable 
of  our  Female  Poets,  has  attempted  almost  every  kind  of  verse, 
and  has  succeeded  in  all  she  has  tried.  Lyrical,  social,  devotional, 
heroic,  and  domestic  poems  have  alike  proceeded  from  her  pen, 
and  in  strains  of  equal  beauty :  while  her  muse  has  undeniably 
accomplished 

"Tilings  unattempted  yet  ia  prose  or  rhyme  " 

by  any  other  writer  of  her  sex.  Her  Plays  on  the  Passions 
would  have  been  marvellous  productions,  even  had  they  been  the 
work  of  a  JMan,  of  long  and  varied  experience  :  but  they  become 
infinitely  more  so  when  we  reflect  that  they  were  composed  by  a 
young  Female  writer,  whose  sex  and  station  must  have  kept  her 
comparatively  secluded  from  the  world  of  active  life  and  emotion. 
Sir  Walter  Scott  had,  therefore,  good  reasons  for  saying — 

"  That  Avon's  swans,  while  rang  the  grove 
With  Monfort's  hate  and  Basil's  love, — 
Awakening  at  the  inspired  strain, 
Deeni'd  their  own  Shakspere  lived  again." 

1  think  that  Mrs.  Baillie  may  be  said  to  be  the  most  purely  and 
serenely  intellectual  of  all  our  Female  Poets.  There  is  a  clearness, 
a  plainness,  a  massiveness  in  her  genius,  which  reminds  one  of 
the  simple  but  severe  perfection  of  a  Doric  column.  Strength 
rather  than  elegance,  chasteness  rather  than  beauty,  and  proportion 
rather  than  grace,  distinguish  her  productions.  I  do  not  mean  to 
say  that  they  want  warmth ;  no  verse  can  be  more  living  and 
thrilling  than  hers  is :  but  I  mean  that  they  have  none  of  that 
glare  which  is  often  mistaken  for  true  poetic  fire,  but  is  in  fact 


288  JOANNA   BAILLIE. 


only  the  unreal  brilliancy  of  an  ignis  fatuus.  There  is  nothing 
phosphorescent  or  slage-firelike  in  Mrs.  Baillie's  poetry  :  it  is  the 
calm,  soft,  refreshing,  wholesome  sunshine  of  a  clear  spring 
morning.  Sir  Walter  Scott  has  likened  Mrs.  Baillie's  muse  to 
Shakspere's  ;  I  venture  to  think  that  it  is  more  like  Chaucer's. 

The  great  characteristics  of  Mrs.  Baillie's  general  style  are 
vigour,  clearness,  and  simplicity.  Nothing  can  exceed  the  force 
and  transparency  of  her  compositions.  I  do  not  think  that  a 
strained,  turgid,  or  unintelligible  expression  is  to  be  found  in  her 
writings :  every  thought  is  plain,  every  image  distinct,  every 
conclusion  unmistakeable.  Much  as  Mrs.  Baillie  has  published, 
I  cannot  call  to  mind  a  single  hurried  idea  or  undigested  sentiment. 
We  never  meet  with  noise  or  bustle  in  her  works  :  she  is  not  at 
all  of  the  steam-engine  class  of  poets :  everything  is  calm, 
unconscious,  and  serene.  Deep  as  may  be  the  emotions  which 
she  describes,  she  exhibits  no  symptoms  of  self  disturbance.  She 
is  above  her  subject,  just  as  a  Shakspere  or  a  Goethe  is.  There 
is  none  of  the  strained  sentimentalism,  none  of  the  spasmodic 
effort,  that  we  find  in  the  productions  of  second-rate  minds ; 
but  with  a  firm  strong  hand  she  grasps  the  very  heart  of  passion, 
and  lays  its  inmost  secrets  bare. 

Before  I  speak  of  Mrs.  Baillie's  chief  poetical  efforts,  her 
Tragedies,  I  would  direct  the  reader's  attention  briefly  to  her 
miscellaneous  poems. 

A  good  idea  of  her  simple  style  and  natural  sentiments  will  be 
gathered  from  the  following  lines 

TO   A   CHILD. 

Whose  imp  art  thou,  with  dimpled  clieek, 

And  curly  pate  and  merry  eye. 
And  arm  and  shoulder  round  and  sleek, 

And  soft  and  lair?  —  thou  urchin  sly  ! 

What  boots  it  who,  with  sweet  caresses, 
First  called  thee  his,  —  or  squire  or  hind  ? 

Since  thou  in  every  wight  that  passes, 
Dost  now  a  friendly  playmate  find. 


JOANNA   BAILLIE.  289 


Thy  downcast  glances,  grave  but  cunning, 

As  fringed  eyelids  rise  and  fall ; 
Thy  shyness  swifdy  from  me  running, 

Is  infantine  coquetry  all. 

But  far  afield  thou  hast  not  flown  , 

With  mocks  and  threats,  half  lisped,  half  spoken, 
I  feel  thee  pulling  at  my  gown, 

Of  right  good  will  thy  simple  token. 

And  thou  must  laugh  and  wrestle,  too, 

A  mimic  warfare  with  me  waging; 
To  make,  as  wily  lovers  do, 

Thy  after-kindness  more  engaging. 

The  wilding  rose,  sweet  as  thyself. 

And  new-cropt  daisies  are  thy  treasure; 

I  'd  gladly  part  with  worldly  pelf 

To  taste  again  thy  youthful  pleasure. 

But  yet  for  all  thy  merry"  look. 

Thy  frisks  and  wiles,  the  time  is  coming 

When  thou  shalt  sit  in  cheerless  nook 
Thy  weary  spell  or  horn-book  thumbing. 

Well,  let  it  be  !  —  through  weal  and  woe. 
Thou  know'st  not  now  thy  future  range ; 

Life  is  a  motley  shifting  show. 

And  thou  a  thing  of  hope  and  change. 

As  a  further  specimen  of  Mrs.  Baillie's  womanly  tenderness  of 
feeling,  and  also  of  her  terse  and  concentrative  style,  I  may  quote 
her  poem  entitled  — 

A  MOTHER  TO  HER  WAKING  INFANT. 

Now  in  thy  dazzled,  half-oped  eye, 
Thy  curled  nose  and  lip  awry, 

37  AA 


290  JOANNA   BAILLIE. 


Uphoisted  arms  and  noddling  head, 
And  little  chin  with  crystal  spread, 
Poor  helpless  thing!  what  do  I  see 
That  I  should  sing  of  thee  ? 

From  thy  poor  tongue  no  accents  come, 
Which  can  but  rub  thy  toothless  gum: 
Small  understanding  boasts  thy  face ; 
Thy  shapeless  limbs  nor  step  nor  grace  : 
A  few  short  words  thy  feats  may  tell ; 
And  yet  I  love  thee  well. 

When  wakes  the  sudden  bitter  shriek, 
And  redder  swells  thy  little  cheek  ; 
When  rattled  keys  thy  woes  beguile, 
And  through  thy  eyelids  gleams  the  smile ; 
Still  for  thy  weakly  self  is  spent 
Thy  little  silly  plaint. 

But  when  thy  friends  are  in  distress, 
Thou  'It  laugh  and  chuckle  ne'ertheless ; 
Nor  with  kind  sympathy  be  smitten 
Though  all  are  sad  but  thee  and  kitten ; 
Yet,  puny  varlet  that  thou  art. 
Thou  twitchest  at  the  heart. 

Thy  smooth  round  cheek  so  soft  and  warm  ; 
Thy  pinky  hand  and  dimpled  arm ; 
Thy  silken  locks  that  scandy  peep. 
With  gold-tipp'd  ends,  where  circles  deep, 
Around  thy  neck  in  harmless  grace 
So  soft  and  sleekly  hold  their  place, 
Might  harder  hearts  with  kindness  fill, 
And  gain  our  right  good  will. 

Each  passing  clown  bestows  his  blessing. 
Thy  mouth  is  worn  wiili  old  w'ives'  kissing: 
E'en  lighter  looks  the  gloomy  eye 


Of  surly  sense  when  thou  art  by  ; 
And  yet,  I  think,  whoe'er  they  be, 
They  love  thee  not  like  rae. 

Perhaps  when  time  shall  add  a  few 
Short  months  to  thee,  thou  'It  love  me  too  ; 
And  after  that,  through  life's  long  way 
Become  my  sure  and  cheering  stay  ; 
Wilt  care  for  me  and  be  my  hold, 
When  I  am  weak  and  old. 

Thou  'It  listen  to  my  lengthen'd  tale, 
And  pity  me  when  I  am  frail*  — 
—  But  see  !  the  sweepy  swimming  fly. 
Upon  the  window  takes  thine  eye. 
Go  to  thy  little  senseless  play ; 
Thou  dost  not  heed  my  lay. 

Mrs.  Baillie  takes  high  rank  as  a  Lyric  poet.  Her  Songs  and 
Hymns  have  singular  merit.  For  conciseness  and  vigour  of 
expression  they  stand  almost  alone  amongst  the  lyrical  produc- 
tions of  the  period.  There  is  a  Scott-like  spirit  in  the  following 
song,  from  The  Beacon :  — 

Up  !  quit  thy  bower,  late  wears  the  hour ; 
Long  have  the  rooks  caw'd  round  thy  tower ; 
On  flower  and  tree,  loud  hums  the  bee  ; 
The  wilding  kid  sports  merrily  : 
A  day  so  bright,  so  fresh,  so  clear, 
Shineth  when  good  fortune  's  near. 

Up  !  lady  fair,  and  braid  thy  hair, 

And  rouse  thee  in  the  breezy  air ; 

The  lulling  stream,  that  soothed  thy  dream, 

Is  dancing  in  the  sunny  beam  ; 

And  hours  so  sweet,  so  bright,  so  gay, 

Will  waft  good  fortune  on  its  way. 

*  Feeble. 


292  JOANNA  BAILLIE. 


Up  !  time  will  tell ;  the  friar's  bell 
Its  service  sound  hath  chimed  well; 
The  aged  crone  keeps  house  alone, 
And  reapers  to  the  field  are  gone  ; 
The  active  day  so  boon  and  bright, 
May  bring  good  fortune  ere  the  night. 

As  a  sentimental  song-writer  Mrs.  Baillie  is  perhaps  not  so 
successful.  Her  style  is  too  intense  and  terse  for  this  species  of 
composition  :  and  she  is  apparently  deficient  in  that  mere  pret- 
tiness  of  fancy  which  seems  essential  to  a  poet  of  this  class.  She 
can,  however,  at  times  be  very  sweetly  plaintive,  as  we  may  see 
by  the  following 


What  voice  is  this,  thou  evening  gale ! 
That  mingles  with  thy  rising  wail ; 
And  as  it  passes  sadly  seems 
The  faint  return  of  youthful  dreams  ? 

Though  now  its  strain  is  wild  and  drear, 
Blythe  was  it  once,  as  skylark's  cheer  — 
Sweet  as  the  night-bird's  sweetest  song  — 
Dear  as  the  lisp  of  infant's  tongue. 

It  was  the  voice  at  whose  sweet  flow 
The  heart  did  beat  and  cheek  did  glow, 
And  lip  did  smile,  and  eye  did  weep, 
And  motion'd  love  the  measure  keep. 

Oft  be  thy  sound,  soft  gale  of  even, 
Thus  to  my  wistful  fancy  given; 
And  as  I  list  the  swelling  strain. 
The  dead  shall  seem  to  live  again. 

Mrs.  Baillie's  genius  is  seen  to  great  advantage  in  her  devotional 
Poems.  Her  peculiar  compression  of  thought  and  strength  of 
style  are  very  effective  in  this  kind  of  composition.     The  sens  J 


JOANNA  BAILLIE.  293 


of  religion,  too,  is  in  her  very  serene  and  lofty.     The  two  fol- 
lowing hymns  seem  to  me  among  the  best  of  such  productions  :  — 

I. 

O  God  !  who  mad'st  earth,  sea,  and  air, 
And  living  creatures,  free  and  fair, 
Thy  hallow'd  praise  is  everywhere, 
Halleluja! 

All  blended  in  the  swelling  song 
Are  wise  and  simple,  weak  and  strong. 
Sweet  woman's  voice  and  infant's  tongue, 
Halleluja  ! 

Yea,  woods  and  winds  and  waves  convey 
To  the  rapt  ear  a  hymn,  and  say 
"  He  who  hath  made  us  we  obey, 
Halleluja  !" 

II. 

Up  !  sluggard  soul !  awake  and  raise 
To  thy  blest  Lord  a  song  of  praise. 
Who  lifts  thee  from  the  gloomy  grave 

When  low  on  eartli  thou  Rest,  — 
To  Him  who  lived  and  died  to  save, 

Hosanna  in  the  highest ! 

To  Him,  thy  friend  of  friends,  whose  love 

Invites  thee  to  a  home  above, 

When  thou,  the  world's  poor  outcast  slave, 

In  grief  and  anguish  criest,  — 
To  Him  who  lived  and  died  to  save, 

Hosanna  in  the  highest ! 

His  love  a  living  stream  hath  found 
For  pilgrims  faint  on  barren  ground. 
Their  parched  and  languid  souls  to  lave. 

When  earthly  streams  are  driest, — 
To  Him  who  lived  and  died  to  save, 

Hosanna  in  the  highest ! 


294  JOANNA   BAILLIE. 


In  the  Metrical  Legends  Mrs.  Baillie  strongly  reminds  the 
reader  of  Scott.  There  is,  it  is  true,  more  reflection  and  more 
seriousness  in  them  than  in  Scott's  poems ;  but  still  the  likeness 
is  great.  Her  Christopher  Columbus  is  a  very  spirited,  and, 
withal,  very  affecting  poem ;  the  following  passage  seems  to  me 
exceedingly  fine :  — 

THE    GRAVE    OF    COLUMBUS. 

Silence,  solemn,  awful,  deep, 
Doth  in  that  hall  of  death  her  empire  keep ; 
Save  when  at  times  the  hollow  pavement,  smote 

By  solitary  wanderer's  foot,  amain 
From  lofty  dome  and  arch  and  aisle  remote, 

A  circling  loud  response  receives  again. 
The  stranger  starts  to  hear  the  growing  sound, 

And  sees  the  blazon'd  trophies  waving  near  ; 
"  Ha  !  tread  my  feet  so  near  that  sacred  ground  !" 
He  stops  and  bows  his  head  : — "  Columbus  resteth  here  !" 

Some  ardent  youth,  perhaps,  ere  from  his  home 

He  launch  his  vent'rous  bark,  will  hither  come  ; 

Read  fondly  o'er  and  o'er  his  graven  name. 

With  feelings  keenly  touch'd, — with  heart  of  flame. 

Till  wrapp'd  in  fancy's  Avild  delusive  dream, 

Times  past,  and  long  forgotten,  present  seem  ; 

To  his  charm'd  ear  the  east-wind  rising  shrill. 

Seems  through  the  Hero's  shroud  to  whistle  still. 

The  clock's  deep  pendulum  swinging,  through  the  blast 

Sounds  like  the  rocking  of  the  lofty  mast ; 

While  fitful  gusts  rave  like  his  clam'rous  band 

Mix'd  with  the  accents  of  his  high  command. 

Slowly  the  stripling  quits  the  pensive  scene. 

And  burns,  and  sighs,  and  weeps  to  be  what  he  has  been. 

Oh !  who  shall  lightly  say  that  fame 
Is  nothing  but  an  empty  name  ! 
Whilst  in  that  sound  there  is  a  charm 


JOANNA  BAILLIE.  295 


The  nerves  to  brace,  the  heart  to  warm  ; 
As  thinking  of  the  mighty  dead, 

The  young  from  slothful  couch  will  start, 
And  vow,  with  lifted  hands  outspread. 

Like  them  to  act  a  noble  part. 

Oh  !  who  shall  lightly  say  that  fame 
Is  nothing  but  an  empty  name  ! 
When  but  for  those  our  mighty  dead, 

All  ages  past  a  blank  would  be, 
Sunk  in  oblivion's  murky  bed, 

A  desert  bare,  a  shipless  sea  ! 
They  are  the  distant  objects  seen, — 
The  lofty  marks  of  what  hath  been. 

Oh  !  who  shall  lightly  say  that  fame 
Is  nothing  but  an  empty  name ! 
When  memory  of  the  mighty  dead 

To  earth-worn  pilgrims'  wistful  eye 
The  brightest  rays  of  cheering  shed 

That  point  to  immortality  ? 

A  twinkling  speck,  but  fix'd  and  bright. 
To  guide  us  through  the  dreary  night. 
Each  hero  shines,  and  lures  the  soul 
To  gain  the  distant  happy  goal. 
For  is  there  one  who  musing  o'er  the  grave 
Where  lies  interr'd  the  good,  the  wise,  the  brave, 
Can  poorly  think  beneath  the  mouldering  heap, 
That  noble  being  shall  for  ever  sleep  ? 
"  No  !"  saith  the  generous  heart,  and  proudly  swells, — 
"  Though  his  cered  corpse  lies  here,  with  God  his  spirit 
dwells !" 

But  it  is  of  course  by  her  Plays  that  Mrs.  Baillie  will  hereafter 
be  chiefly  known.  To  these  productions,  therefore,  we  must  turn 
for  our  best  view  of  her  genius. 


296  JOANNA  BAILLIE. 


I  quite  agree  with  the  opinion  expressed  by  an  eminent  critic 
that  "  no  female  has  ever  struck  at  once  into  so  high  a  vein  of 
poetry,  or  obtained  so  much  success,  in  the  noblest  and  most  con- 
summate branch  of  poetic  composition  as  Mrs.  Baillie  has  done 
in  her  Tragic  Dramas."  The  aim,  the  tone,  the  style  and  the 
moral  are  alike  lofty,  fresh,  and  pure.  Intensely  natural,  the  emo- 
tions she  depicts  are  yet  always  free  from  that  familiar  nearness 
which  makes  passion  coarse  and  vulgar.  Though  casting  aside 
poetical  decorations,  she  ever  writes  in  the  spirit  of  poetry.  She 
disdains  the  use  of  the  conventionalisms  which  weak  writers  have 
employed  to  depict  impassioned  feeling,  and,  with  the  true  origi- 
nality of  genius,  chooses  rather  to  trace  the  passions  to  their 
sources  for  herself,  and  describe  them  as  she  finds  them. 

To  acquire  a  just  idea  of  Mrs.  Baillie's  merit,  we  must  recol- 
lect what  was  the  aspect  of  dramatic  literature  when  she  produced 
her  first  volume  of  plays.  The  German  school  was  then  in  full 
vogue.  Kotzebue  and  his  vicious  style  were  on  the  very  pinnacle 
of  public  favour.  Rant,  fustian,  violence,  noise  and  heroics  were 
the  chief  ingredients  of  dramatic  composition,  and  passion  had 
become  lost  in  contortion.  Great,  then,  must  have  been  the 
genius  that  first  saw  the  deep  mistake  of  this  departure  from  na- 
ture :  and  resolute  the  spirit  that  could  at  once  and  alone  set  itself 
to  oppose  so  strong  a  tide  of  error.  I  see  in  Mrs.  Baillie,  there- 
fore, not  merely  a  powerful  and  successful  dramatist,  but  a  great 
literary  reformer:  if  not  the  very  first,  at  least  amongst  the  first, 
of  those  who  once  again  placed  our  poetry  under  the  dominion  of 
nature.  She  preceded  and  heralded  the  school  of  Wordsworth  ; 
and  maybe  safely  said  to  have  done  more  for  the  restoration  of 
our  national  drama  than  any  living  writer. 

It  is  not  necessary  to  speak  much  of  Mrs.  Baillie's  Plays  as 
connected  with  their  fitness  for  theatrical  representation.  The 
success  which  has  attended  the  performance  of  Tlie  Separation 
and  Henriquez  clearly  shows  that  with  performers  sedulously 
bent  on  carrying  out  the  author's  design,  and  willing  to  sacrifice 
momentary  applause  for  ultimate  appreciation,  Mrs.  Baillie's 
Plays  would  be  as  forcible  in  action  as  they  are  striking  on 
perusal.  But  our  Stage  is  too  melodramatic  for  this  at  present: 
and  possibly  the  taste  of  the  public  too  melodramatic  also.    There 


JOANNA   BAILLIE.  297 


is  too  great  a  love  for  blue-fire,  and  tin-foil,  and  broadsword-com- 
bats as  yet :  when  once  this  taste  for  mere  show  is  rendered 
subservient  to  the  higher  effects  of  moral  beauty  and  fitness,  the 
Plays  on  the  Passions  cannot  fail  to  become  popular  upon  the 
Stage. 

It  may  be  as  well  to  say,  however,  that  all  Joanna  Baillie's 
poetical  gifts  are  seen  to  the  greatest  advantage  in  her  Plays. 
Her  clear  style,  energetic  diction,  and  keen  direct  vision  are  there 
quite  in  place,  and  contribute  very  materially  to  the  success  which 
she  undoubtedly  achieves.  It  is  impossible  to  dispute  the  power 
and  dramatic  skill  of  the  following  scene  from  De  Monfort. 

[De  Monfort  is  revealing  to  his  sister  Jane  liis  hatred  of  Rezentelt,  wliich 
at  last  hurries  liim  into  the  crime  of  murder.] 

DE    MONFORT. 

No  more,  my  sister,  urge  me  not  again  ; 
My  secret  troubles  cannot  be  revealed. 
From  all  participation  of  its  thoughts 
My  heart  recoils :  I  pray  thee  be  contented. 

JANE. 

What,  must  I,  like  a  distant  humble  friend, 
Observe  thy  restless  eye,  and  gait  disturbed, 
In  timid  silence,  whilst  with  yearning  heart 
I  turn  aside  to  weep  ?  O  no  !  De  Monfort ! 
A  nobler  task  thy  noble  mind  will  give  ; 
Thy  true  intrusted  friend  I  still  shall  be. 

DE    MONFORT. 

Ah,  Jane,  forbear  I  I  cannot  e'en  to  thee. 

JANE. 

Then  fie  upon  it !  fie  upon  it,  Monfort ! 
There  was  a  time  when  e'en  with  murder  stain'd, 
Had  it  been  possible  that  such  dire  deed 
Could  e'er  have  been  the  crime  of  one  so  piteous, 
Thou  wouldst  have  told  it  me. 
38 


298  JOANNA   BAILLIE. 


DE    MONFORT. 

So  would  I  now  —  but  ask  of  this  no  more. 
All  other  trouble  but  the  one  I  feel 
I  had  disclosed  to  thee.     I  pray  thee  spare  me. 
It  is  the  secret  weakness  of  my  nature. 

JANE. 

Then  secret  let  it  be :  I  urge  no  farther. 

The  eldest  of  our  valiant  father's  hopes, 

So  sadly  orphan'd,  side  by  side  we  stood, 

Like  two  young  trees,  whose  boughs,  in  early  strength, 

Screen  the  weak  saplings  of  the  rising  grove, 

And  brave  the  storm  together  — 

I  have  so  long,  as  if  by  nature's  right, 

Thy  bosom's  inmate  and  adviser  been, 

I  thought  through  life  I  should  have  so  remain'd, 

Nor  ever  known  a  change.    Forgive  me,  Monfort, 

A  humbler  station  will  I  take  by  thee  : 

The  close  attendant  of  thy  wandering  steps  ; 

The  cheerer  of  this  home,  by  strangers  sought : 

The  soother  of  those  griefs  I  must  not  know. 

This  is  mine  office  now  :  I  ask  no  more. 

DE   MONFORT. 

Oh  Jane  !  thou  dost  constrain  me  with  thy  love  ! 
Would  I  could  tell  it  thee  ! 

JANE. 

Thou  shalt  not  tell  me.     Nay,  I'll  stop  mine  ears, 

Nor  from  the  yearnings  of  affection  wring 

What  shrinks  from  utterance.     Let  it  pass,  my  brother. 

I'll  stay  by  thee  :  I'll  cheer  thee,  comfort  thee  : 

Pursue  with  thee  the  study  of  some  art. 

Or  nobler  science,  that  compels  the  mind 

To  steady  thought  progressive,  driving  forth 

All  floating,  wild,  unhappy  fantasies  : 

Till  thou,  with  brow  unclouded,  smil'st  again, 

Like  one  who  from  dark  visions  of  the  night. 


JOANNA  BAILLIE.  299 


When  th'  active  soul  within  its  lifeless  cell 
Holds  its  own  world,  with  dreadful  fancy  press'd 
Of  some  dire,  terrible,  or  murd'rous  deed, 
Wakes  to  the  dawning  morn,  and  blesses  heaven. 

DE    MONFORT. 

It  will  not  pass  away  :  'twill  haunt  rae  still. 

JANE . 

Ah  !  say  not  so,  for  I  will  haunt  thee  too ; 
And  be  to  it  so  close  an  adversary, 
That  though  I  wrestle  darkling  with  the  fiend, 
I  shall  o'ercorae  it. 

DE    MONFORT. 

Thou  most  generous  woman! 
Why  do  I  treat  thee  thus  ?  It  should  not  be  — 
And  yet  I  cannot  —  O  that  cursed  villain  ! 
He  will  not  let  me  be  the  man  I  would. 

JANE. 

What  say'st  thou,Monfort  ?     Oh  !  what  words  are  these? 
They  have  awaked  my  soul  to  dreadful  thoughts. 
I  do  beseech  thee  speak  ! 

[He  shakes  his  head,  and  turns  from  her :  she  following  him.'] 
By  the  afTection  thou  didst  ever  bear  me, 
By  the  dear  memory  of  our  infant  days  ; 
By  kindred  living  ties,  ay,  and  by  those 
Who  sleep  i'  the  tomb,  and  cannot  call  to  thee, 
I  do  conjure  thee  speak. 

[_He  waves  her  off  with  his  hand.'] 
Ha  !  wilt  thou  not  ? 
Then,  if  affection,  most  unwearied  love. 
Tried  early,  long,  and  never  wanting  found. 
O'er  generous  man  hath  more  authority, 
More  rightful  power  than  crown  and  sceptre  give, 
I  do  command  thee. 

[_He  sinks  into  a  chair,  greatly  agitated  J 


300  JOANNA  BAILLIE. 


De  Monfort,  do  not  thus  resist  my  love. 
Here  I  entreat  thee  on  my  bended  knees. 

[^Kneeling.'] 

Alas  !  my  brother  ! 

TDe  Monfort  starts  up,  raises  her,  and  kneels  at  her  feet.'] 

DE  monfort. 
Thus  let  him  kneel  who  should  the  abased  be, 
And  at  thine  honoured  feet  confession  make. 
I  '11  tell  thee  all  —  but  oh  !  thou  wilt  despise  me. 
For  in  my  breast  a  raging  passion  burns, 
To  which  thy  soul  no  sympathy  will  own. 
A  passion  which  hath  made  my  nighdy  couch 
A  place  of  torment;  and  the  light  of  day, 
With  the  gay  intercourse  of  social  man. 
Feel  like  th'  oppressive  airless  pestilence. 

0  Jane  !  thou  wilt  despise  me. 

JANE. 

Say  not  so : 

1  never  can  despise  thee,  gentle  brother. 
A  lover's  jealousy  and  hopeless  pangs 
No  kindly  heart  contemns. 

DE    MONFORT. 

A  lover,  say'st  thou? 
No,  it  is  hate  !  black,  lasting,  deadly  hate  ; 
Which  thus  hath  driven  me  forth  from  kindred  peace, 
From  social  pleasure,  from  my  native  home, 
To  be  a  sullen  wanderer  on  the  earth. 
Avoiding  all  men,  cursing  and  accurs'd. 

JANE. 

De  Monfort,  this  is  fiendlike,  frightful,  terrible ! 
What  being,  by  the  Almighty  Father  formed, 
Of  flesh  and  blood,  created  even  as  thou. 
Could  in  thy  breast  such  horrid  tempest  wake. 
Who  art  thyself  his  fellow  ? 


Unknit  thy  brows,  and  spread  (hose  wrath-clench' d  hands 
Some  sprite  accurs'd  within  tliy  bosom  mates 
To  work  thy  ruin.     Strive  with  it,  my  brother ! 
Strive  bravely  with  it:  drive  it  from  thy  breast: 
'T  is  the  degrader  of  a  noble  heart ; 
Curse  it,  and  bid  it  part. 

DE    MONFORT. 

It  will  not  part.     I  've  lodged  it  here  too  long ; 
With  my  first  cares  I  felt  its  rankling  touch, 
I  loath'd  him  when  a  boy. 

JANE. 

Who  didst  thou  say  ? 

DE    MONFORT. 

Oh  !  that  detested  Rezenvelt? 

E'en  in  our  early  sports,  like  two  young  whelps 

Of  hostile  breed,  instinctively  averse. 

Each  'gainst  the  other  pitch'd  his  ready  pledge, 

And  frown'd  defiance.     As  we  onward  pass'd 

From  youth  to  man's  estate,  his  narrow  art, 

And  envious  gibing  malice,  poorly  veil'd 

In  the  affected  carelessness  of  mirth, 

Still  more  detestable  and  odious  grew. 

There  is  no  living  being  on  this  earth 

Who  can  conceive  the  malice  of  his  soul. 

With  all  his  gay  and  damned  merriment. 

To  those,  by  fortune  or  by  merit  plac'd 

Above  his  paltry  self.     When,  low  in  fortune. 

He  look'd  upon  the  state  of  prosperous  men. 

As  nightly  birds,  rous'd  from  their  murky  holes. 

Do  scowl  and  chatter  at  the  light  of  day, 

I  could  endure  it ;  even  as  we  bear 

The'  impotent  bite  of  some  half-trodden  worm, 

I  could  endure  it.     But  when  honours  came, 

And  wealth  and  new-got  titles  fed  his  pride; 

Whilst  flattering  knaves  did  trumpet  forth  his  praise, 

BB 


303  JOANNA   BAILLIE. 


And  grov'ling  idiots  grinn'd  applauses  on  him; 
Oh  !  then  I  could  no  longer  suffer  it ! 
It  drove  me  frantic.  —  What !  what  would  I  give  ! 
"What  would  I  give  to  crush  the  bloated  toad, 
So  rankly  do  I  loathe  him  ! 

JANE. 

And  would  thy  hatred  crush  the  very  man 
Who  gave  to  thee  that  life  he  might  have  ta'en  ? 
That  life  which  thou  so  rashly  didst  expose 
To  aim  at  his  !  oh !   this  is  horrible  ! 

DE    MONFORT. 

Ha !  thou  hast  heard  it,  then  ?    From  all  the  world. 
But  most  of  all  from  thee,  I  thought  it  hid. 

JANE. 

I  heard  a  secret  whisper,  and  resolv'd 
Upon  the  instant  to  return  to  thee. 
Didst  thou  receive  my  letter  ? 

DE    MONFORT. 

I  did  !  I  did  !  'twas  that  which  drove  me  hither. 
I  could  not  bear  to  meet  thine  eye  again. 

JANE. 

Alas !  that,  tempted  by  a  sister's  tears, 

I  ever  left  thy  house  !     These  few  past  months, 

These  absent  months,  have  brought  us  all  this  woe. 

Had  I  remain'd  with  thee  it  had  not  been. 

And  yet,  methinks,  it  should  not  move  you  thus. 

You  dar'd  him  to  the  field  ;  both  bravely  fought ; 

He,  more  adroit,  disarm'd  you  ;  courteously 

Return'd  the  forfeit  sword,  which,  so  return'd, 

You  did  refuse  to  use  against  him  more ; 

And  then,  as  says  report,  you  parted  friends. 


JOANNA   BAILLIE.  303 


DE    MONFORT. 

When  he  disarm'd  this  curs'd,  this  worthless  hand, 

Of  its  most  worthless  weapon,  he  but  spar'd 

From  devilish  pride,  which  now  derives  a  bliss 

In  seeing  me  thus  fetter'd,  sham'd,  subjected 

With  the  vile  favour  of  his  poor  f(»rbearance  ; 

Whilst  he  securely  sits  with  gibing  brow, 

And  basely  baits  me,  like  a  muzzled  cur 

Who  cannot  turn  again. — 

Until  that  day,  till  that  accursed  day, 

I  knew  not  half  the  torment  of  this  hell 

Which  burns  within  my  breast. 

Heaven's  lightnings  blast  him  ! 

JANE. 

O  this  is  horrible  !     Forbear,  forbear  ! 

Lest  Heaven's  vengeance  light  upon  thy  head, 

For  this  most  impious  wish. 

DE    MONFORT. 

Then  let  it  light. 
Torments  more  fell  than  I  have  felt  already 
It  cannot  send.     To  be  annihilated  — 
What  all  men  shrink  from  —  to  be  dust,  be  nothing, 
Were  bliss  to  me,  compared  to  what  I  am. 

There  is  consummate  strength  and  skill,  too,  in  the  following 
passage  from  the  magnificent  play  of  Henriquez. 

Henriquez,  a  favourite  general  of  King  Alonzo,  moved  by 
strong,  but,  as  it  turns  out,  groundless  jealousy,  kills  his  friend, 
Don  Juan.  A  youth  named  Antonio  is  seized  on  suspicion  of 
having  committed  the  murder,  and  thrown  into  prison.  Henri- 
quez, stung  by  overpowering  remorse,  resolves  to  explain  the 
true  facts  of  the  case.  The  King  has  at  a  former  time  promised 
to  grant  him  any  favour  he  may  ask  from  him  on  the  production 
of  a  certain  ring.  At  the  period  fixed  for  the  examination  of  the 
supposed  culprit,  Henriquez  suddenly  appears  in  the  presence- 
chamber.     The  scene  is  wrought  with  surpassing  power. 


304  JOANNA   BAILLIE. 


[_Enter  Hi^krkivez,  foUoived  by  Carlos  and  ksio- 
Nio,  the  prisoner,  fettered  and  manacled.'] 

KING. 

Thou,  too,  my  valiant  friend,  a  suitor  here  ? 

HENRIQUEZ. 

A  humble  supplicant. 

KING. 

Who  needs  not  sue. 
Say  freely  what  thou  would'st,  and  it  is  granted. 

HENRIQUEZ. 

But  what  I  beg,  an  earnest  boon,  must  be 
Confirmed  to  me  with  all  solemnity 
Before  I  utter  it. 


A  strange  request ! 
But  that  thy  services  have  been  to  me 
Beyond  all  recompense,  and  that  I  know 
Thy  country's  welfare  and  thy  sovereign's  honour 
Are  dear  to  thee,  as  thou  full  well  hast  prov'd, 
I  should  with  some  precaution  give  my  word ; 
But  be  it  so :  I  say  thy  suit  is  granted. 

HENRIQUEZ. 

Nay,  swear  it  on  this  sword. 

KING. 

Where  doth  this  tend  ?     Doubt'st  thou  my  royal  word  ? 

HENRIQUEZ. 

When  honoured  lately  by  your  princely  presence, 
You  gave  to  me  this  ring  with  words  of  favour  ; 
And  said  if  I  should  e'er,  by  fortune  press'd, 
Return  the  same  to  you,  whatever  grace 
1  then  might  ask  should  be  conceded  to  me. 

[_Giving  the  ring."] 


JOANNA   BAILLIE. 


305 


Receive  your  royal  token  :  my  request 
Is  that  you  swear  upon  my  sword  to  grant 
This  boon  which  I  shall  beg. 

[Holds  sivord  to  the  King,  who  lays  his  hand  upon  it.'] 


KING. 

This  sword,  this  honour'd  blade,  I  know  it  well ; 
Which  thou  in  battle  from  the  princely  Moor 
So  valiantly  did  win :   why  should  I  shrink 
From  any  oath  that  should  be  sworn  on  this  ? 
I  swear  by  the  fair  honour  of  a  soldier, 
To  grant  thy  boon,  wiiatever  it  may  be. 
Declare  it  then,  Henriquez. 


And  silent,  too. 


Thou  art  pale, 
I  wait  upon  thy  words. 


[e4  pause.'] 


HENRIQUEZ. 

My  breath  forsook  me.     'T  is  a  passing  weakness 
I  have  power  now.  — There  is  a  criminal. 
Whose  guilt  before  your  Highness  in  due  form 
Shall  shortly  be  attested  :  and  my  boon 
Is,  that  your  Highness  will  not  pardon  him, 
However  strongly  you  may  be  inclined 
To  royal  clemency,  —  however  strongly 
Entreated  so  to  do. 

KING. 

This  much  amazes  me.     Ever  till  now 
Thou  'st  been  inclined  to  mercy,  not  to  blood. 


HENRIQUEZ. 

Yea,  but  this  criminal,  with  selfish  cruelty. 
With  black  ingratitude,  with  base  disloyalty 
To  all  that  sacred  is  in  virtuous  lies, 
Knitting  man's  heart  to  man  —  What  shall  I  say  ? 
I  have  no  room  to  breathe 

[Tearing  open  his  doublet  with  violence 

39  BB* 


306  JOANNA   BAILLIE. 


He  had  a  friend, 
Ingenuous,  faithful,  generous  and  noble  : 
Even  but  to  look  on  him  had  been  full  warrant 
Against  the  accusing  tongue  of  man  or  angel. 
To  all  the  world  beside,  —  and  yet  he  slew  him. 
A  friend  whose  fostering  love  had  been  the  stay, 
The  guide,  the  solace  of  his  wayward  youth, — 
Love  steady,  tried,  unwearied,  —  yet  he  slew  him. 
A  friend,  who  in  his  best  devoted  thoughts, 
His  happiness  on  earth,  his  bliss  in  heaven, 
Intwin'd  his  image,  and  could  nought  devise 
Of  separate  good,  —  and  yet  he  basely  slew  him  ; 
Rush'd  on  him  like  a  ruffian  in  the  dark, 
And  thrust  him  forth  from  life,  from  light,  from  nature, 
Unwitting,  unprepared  for  the  awful  change 
Death  brings  to  all.     This  act,  so  foul,  so  damned, 
This  he  hath  done  :  therefore  upon  his  liead 
Let  fall  the  law's  unmitigated  justice  ! 


KING. 

And  wherefore  doubt'st  thou  that  from  such  a  man 
I  will  withhold  all  grace  ?     Were  he  my  brother 
1  would  not  pardon  him.     Produce  your  criminal. 

^Attendants  lead  forward  Antonio.] 

HENRIQUEZ. 

[^Motioning  with  his  hand  to  forbid  them.'] 
Undo  his  shackles, 
He  is  innocent ! 

KING. 

What  meaneth  this  ?     Produce  your  criminal. 

HENRIQUEZ. 

[^Kneeling.'] 
My  Royal  Master, —  he  is  at  your  feet! 

The  King  endeavours  to  save  Henriquez,  but  in  vain.     He 
persists  in  dying  on  the  scaffold. 


MRS.  MARGARET  HODSON. 

(Formerly  Miss  Holford.) 

This  lady  is  the  author  of  Wallace,  or  the  Fight  of  Falkirk  ; 
Margaret  of  Anjou;  and  some  Miscellaneous  Verses,  which,  I 
believe,  have  not  yet  appeared  in  a  collected  form.  Her  poetical 
writings  display  a  strong,  romantic,  vigorous  genius,  lofty  and 
daring  in  its  flight,  and  essentially  firm  and  healthy  in  its  consti- 
tution. She  presents  a  fine  contrast  to  those  gossamer  Poetesses 
who  have  since  appeared  among  us  so  frequendy.  Like  Mrs. 
Baillie,  she  finds  that  simplicity  is  the  truest  strength :  and  she 
never  exhibits  the  slightest  leaning  towards  the  rhapsodical,  the 
sentimental,  or  the  spasmodic.  Clear  in  thought  and  intelligible 
in  style,  she  is  one  of  the  most  agreeable  Poets  we  possess.  Her 
narratives  flow  on  as  gracefully  and  smoothly  as  Scott's :  she 
closely  resembles  that  great  writer,  indeed,  in  many  respects, 
although  as  regards  dramatic  skill  she  is  certainly  superior.  Her 
stories  are  very  skilfully  conducted,  and  a  strong  chain  of  interest 
runs  through  them  from  the  first  page  to  the  last.  In  her  spirited 
descriptions  of  "  broil  and  battle,"  few  writers  in  our  language 
surpass  her :  and  one  cannot  but  feel  surprised  that  a  lady  of  our 
peaceful  age  should  be  so  thoroughly  imbued  with  the  martial 
spirit  of  our  warlike  ancestors.  The  fact  proves  not  merely  the 
strength  of  the  human  imagination,  but  also  that  the  imagination 
is  not  sexual. 

The  reader  will  find  ample  specimens  of  Mrs.  Hodson's  poetical 
powers  in  the  subjoined  extracts. 

THE    DREAM    OF    GRjEME. 

(From  "  Wallace. '" ) 

Wallace  in  sober  mood  revolves 
High-soaring  hopes  and  deep  resolves  : 


308  MRS.   MARGARET  HODSON. 

Sees  victory  gain'd,  the  day  his  own, 
A  native  monarch  on  the  throne,  — 
And  hears  his  much-loved  country  shed 
A  thousand  blessings  on  his  head  ! 

'T  was  a  gay  dream,  —  the  voice  of  Graeme 

Dispers'd  it,  and  it  fled  away, 
As  fly  from  morning's  ruddy  beam 

The  mists  of  early  day  : 

As  its  accents  came  to  Wallace'  ear, 
They  sounded  with  half  their  wonted  cheer  ; 
And  when  he  rais'd  his  speaking  eye, 
It  sparkled  with  half  the  usual  joy  ; 
For  who  so  blithe  as  the  gallant  Graeme, 
When  he  stood  on  the  edge  of  the  hour  of  fame ! 
But  now  a  strange  unwelcome  guest 
O'erclouds  his  brow,  and  chills  his  breast; 
His  generous  heart  disdain'd  to  bear 
The  ponderous  weight  of  untold  care  ; 
Though  half  asham'd,  his  lips  confess 
His  fancy's  dreary  dreams,  his  bosom's  heaviness. 

"  Wallace,  in  many  a  busy  hour 

We  have  look'd  on  death  together  : 
We  have  seen  the  fiercest  war-clouds  lower, 
Stood  calm  'mid  many  an  iron-shower. 

And  mock'd  the  pelting  weather  ; 

And  smil'd  to  see  our  burnish'd  mail 

Turn  the  thick  storm  of  arrowy  hail ; 

For  still,  wherever  Wallace  trod. 

My  foot  as  firmly  press'd  the  sod ; 

My  heart's  first  boast,  my  dearest  pride, 

To  stand  or  fall  by  Wallace'  side  ! 

How  wilt  thou  marvel  then  to  hear. 

That  gossip  tales  and  baby  fear. 

Sleep's  flimsy  shades  —  night's  mockeries, 

With  magic  film  delude  my  eyes, 


MRS.  MARGARET  HODSON.  309 


Till  to  my  heart  the  future  seems 
Crowded  with  sanguine  forms,  a  scene  of  ghastly  dreams. 

"  Nay,  Wallace,  smile  not  on  thy  friend ; 

'T  is  pressing  on  a  thorn  : 
Chide,  and  thy  voice  shall  not  offend  ; 

But  Graeme  endures  not  scorn  ! 

"Of  late  in  great  Kincardine's  tower, 
Subdued  by  slumber's  welcome  power, 

In  willing  thrall  I  lay  ; 
When  to  my  eyes  a  phantom  rose, 
Which  scar'd  the  angel  of  repose. 

And  fill'd  me  with  dismay  : 
All  shivering,  wan,  and  sniear'd  with  blood. 
Close  to  my  couch  Sir  Patrick  stood  ; 
His  pale,  pale  cheek  and  clotted  hair, 
His  hollow  eyes'  unearthly  glare, 
Appall'd  my  senses,  from  my  brow 
The  beads  of  fear  began  to  flow  ; 
The  phantom  shook  its  gory  head  — 
'Art  thou  a  Graeme  ? '  it  sternly  said ; 
'  Art  thou  a  Graeme  ?  and  does  thine  eye 
Shrink  to  behold  war's  livery? 
The  Fates,  enamour'd  of  our  name, 
Loudly  demand  another  Graeme  ; 
Thy  death-word  is  pronounc'd  on  high 
The  last  of  all  thy  fields  is  nigh  ! 
Farewell,  thy  task  shall  soon  be  o'er ; 
We  meet  ere  long,  to  part  no  more  ! ' 

"  I  sprang  from  my  couch  as  the  dawn  arose, 

And  thought  in  my  restless  mind, 
That  the  grizzly  forms  of  vex'd  repose 

Would  flee  from  the  morning  wind  ; 
And  I  climb'd  to  the  brow  of  the  upland  heath, 
To  taste  of  the  gale  the  freshest  breath  ; 
A  cloud  was  on  Craig  Rossie's  brow, 


310  MRS.   MARGARET   HODSON. 

Dark  gloom'd  Kincardine's  towers  below  ; 
And  the  winding  Ruthven's  rippling  swell 
Murraur'd  low  on  mine  ear,  '  Farewell,  farewell!' 
Then  I  thought  on  thee,  and  thy  loyal  tryste, 

And  I  sprang  on  my  berry-brown  steed  ; 
That  it  might  not  be  said  that  Graeme  was  miss'd 

In  the  hour  of  Scotland's  need  ; 
But  still  as  I  rode,  I  turn'd  me  round. 
To  list  to  the  Ruthven's  mournful  sound, 
And  thou  canst  not  think  how  its  voice  was  dear, 
When  its  last  faint  murmur  met  mine  ear ! 
For  prophetic  was  my  answering  sigh 
To  the  stream  which  I  lov'd  in  infancy  !" 


ON    MEMORY. 

Written  at  Aix-la-Chapelle. 

No  !  this  is  not  the  land  of  Memory, 
It  is  not  the  home  where  she  dwells; 

Though  her  wandering,  wayward  votary 
Is  ever  the  thrall  of  her  spells. 

Far  off  were  the  fetters  woven  which  bind 

Still  closer  and  closer  the  Exile's  mind. 

Yet  this  land  was  the  boast  of  minstrelsy, 
And  the  song  of  the  Troubadour  ; 

Where  Charlemagne  led  his  chivalry 

To  the  fields  which  were  fought  of  yore  ; 

Still  the  eye  of  Fancy  may  see  them  glance, 

Gilded  banner  and  quivering  lance  ! 

But  Memory  from  Fancy  turns  away, 
She  hath  wealth  of  her  own  to  guard  ; 

And  whisperings  come  to  her  ear  which  say 
Sweeter  things  than  the  song  of  the  bard. 


MRS.   MARGARET   HODSON.  311 


They  are  solemn  and  low,  and  none  can  hear 
The  whispers  which  come  to  Memory's  ear ! 

They  tell  of  the  dews  that  brightened  the  way 

By  our  earliest  footsteps  prest ; 
They  tell  of  the  visions  hopeful  and  gay, 

Which  were  born,  and  which  died,  in  the  breast; 
They  recall  the  accents  which  sweetly  spake 
To  the  soul,  when  the  soul  was  first  awake. 

In  Memory's  land  springs  never  a  flower, 

Nor  the  lowliest  daisy  blooms  ; 
Ne'er  a  robin  chirps  from  its  russet  bower. 

But  to  call  from  their  silent  tombs 
The  thoughts  and  the  things  which  Time's  pitiless  sway 
Has  long  since  swept  from  the  world  away  ! 

In  Memory's  land  waves  never  a  leaf, 

There  never  a  summer-breeze  blows. 
But  some  long-smother'd  thought  of  joy  or  grief 

Starts  up  from  its  long  repose  : 
And  forms  are  living  and  visible  there, 
\Vhich  vanish'd  long  since  from  our  earthly  sphere  ! 

I  would  not  escape  from  Memory's  land 

For  all  that  the  eye  can  view  ; 
For  there  's  dearer  dust  in  Memory's  land 

Than  the  ore  of  rich  Peru. 
I  clasp  the  fetters  by  Memory  twin'd. 
The  wanderer's  heart  and  soul  to  bind  '. 


Mrs.  Hodson's  chief  work  is  doubtless  the  fine  poem  entitled 
Margari!  of  Anjou.  The  fate  of  this  royal  lady  seems  to  have 
called  forth  the  warm  sympathy  of  her  sex;  for  her  career  has 
met  witli  many  female  historians.  None,  however,  have  traced 
her  story  so  eloquently  and  graphically  as  Mrs.  Hodson.  Her 
portrait  is  masterly : 


312  MRS.   MARGARET    HODSON. 

Now  who  is  she,  whose  awful  mien, 

Whose  dauntless  step's  firm  dignity, 

Whose  high  arch'd  brow,  sedate,  serene. 

Whose  eye,  unbending,  strong  and  keen. 
The  solemn  presence  hint  of  conscious  majesty  ? 
*  *  *  * 

But  she  is  calm  :  —  a  peace  profound 

On  the  unruffled  surface  rests  ; 

Yet  is  that  breast  in  iron  bound, 

And  fill'd  with  rude  and  sullen  guests  ; 

No  female  weakness  harbour'd  there, 

Relentings  soft,  nor  shrinking  fear, 

Within  its  centre  deep  abide  : 

The  stern  resolve,  the  purpose  dire. 

And  grim  revenge's  quenchless  fire. 

The  intrepid  thought,  cold,  thawless  pride, 

And  fortitude  in  torture  tried,  — 

These  are  its  gentlest  inmates  now, 
Tho'  lawless  love,  they  say,  once  heard  its  secret  vow- 
Very  exquisitely  does  our  fair  author  from  time  to  time  cause 
the  beautiful  ray  of  maternal  love  to  light  up  this  dark  and  gloomy 
heart.  We  will  take  here  a  brief  specimen.  When  the  Queen's 
son.  Prince  Edward,  after  the  unsuccessful  battle  of  Hexham, 
falls  fainting  at  her  feet,  overcome  with  exertion  and  dispirited  by 
defeat,  — 

In  Margaret's  fierce  and  stormy  breast 
A  thousand  warring  passions  strove  ; 
Yet  now,  unbid,  a  stranger-guest 
Dispers'd  and  silenc'd  all  the  rest  — 
Thy  voice.  Maternal  Love  ! 
Ambition,  Hatred,  Vengeance  wild, 
Hot  Ire,  and  frozen  Pride  were  fiown, 
While  gazing  on  her  lifeless  child. 
On  heaven  she  cried,  in  frenzied  tone, 
"  Oh,  save  my  gallant  boy  !  oh,  Edward  !  oh,  my  son  !" 


MRS.   MARGARET   HODSON.  313 


The  description  of  the  preservation  of  the  fainting  Prince  by 
the  robbers  is  given  with  remarkable  spirit. 

There  is  great  force  in  the  picture  which  the  poetess  gives  us 
of  the  awe  which  the  queenly  Margaret  wields  over  the  fierce 
robber  Rudolph. 

The  bloodhound  darting  on  his  prey 
Checks  when  his  master  bids  him  stay, 
Crouches  and  cowers  at  his  command, 
And  licks  with  gory  tongue  his  hand  ; 
Rudolph,  the  forest's  ruihan  child. 
As  shaggy  bloodhound  fierce  and  wild. 
Of  lion  heart  and  iron  frame. 
Beneath  Queen  Margaret's  eye  was  tame, 
And  by  mysterious  impulse  sway'd. 
In  unseen  fetters  held,  he  listen'd  and  obey'd  ! 

In  the  fourth  canto  of  this  poem  there  is  a  striking  episode  de- 
scriptive of  the  unwitting  slaughter  by  a  knight  of  his  unrecog- 
nised brother.  The  whole  passage  is  too  long  for  quotation,  but 
I  extract  a  portion  of  it. 

The  three  children  of  Lord  Edric  part  on  that  nobleman's 
death.  Two  of  them,  Sir  Gerald  and  Geraldine,  are  placed  under 
the  charge  of  a  lawless  baron,  while  Edwin,  the  other  son,  de- 
parts to  Spain  to  off'er  a  relique  upon  the  shrine  of  St.  Jago,  pur- 
suant to  his  deceased  mother's  injunctions.  Gerald  and  his  sis- 
ter, sorely  oppressed  by  their  wicked  guardian,  fled  from  their 
home, 

and  gave 
Their  fortunes  to  the  bounding  wave. 

A  storm  overtakes  them,  their  vessel  founders,  and  all  are  lost 
but  Sir  Gerald,  who  is  rescued  from  the  waves  by  a  hardy  crew 
of  sailors.  He  is  carried  to  a  neighbouring  castle,  where  he  is 
trained  to  knightly  deeds.  At  length  he  seeks  the  field  of  fame, 
and  fights  under  the  banner  of  the  Red  Rose.  After  describing 
a  disastrous  conflict  in  which  he  had  been  engaged,  he  continues, — 
40  cc 


314.  MRS.   MARGARET  HODSON. 

Stoutly  we  strove,  till  hope  declined 
In  every  brave  Lancastrian's  mind, 
No  more  to  conquer  then  we  fought, 
That  thought,  that  cheering  thought  was  chill'd, 
And  now  the  prize  for  which  we  sought 
Was  death  upon  the  hostile  field  ! 
Yet  ill  to  strife  like  this  inur'd, 
My  manly  strength  but  half-matur'd, 
And  stung  with  sorrow  and  disdain 
To  find  we  had  but  striven  in  vain, 
I  paus'd  a  little  while  to  breathe, 
And  cast  a  hopeless  look  around  that  dismal  heath. 

While  thus  I  stood,  for  long  before 
My  steed  had  dropp'd  to  rise  no  more, 
A  brook's  refreshing  murmurs  stole 
Like  music  o'er  my  harass'd  soul; 
I  turn'd  to  seek  the  cooling  tide, 
Resolv'd  to  taste  it  ere  I  died  ; 
Alas  !  commissioned  from  on  high  ! 
That  brook  entic'd  my  steps,  its  voice  was  destiny  ! 

Just  as  I  gain'd  tlie  sparkling  flood, 
A  martial  form  beside  it  stood, 
Whose  towering  mien  and  bearing  bold, 
A  noble  soldier's  presence  told  ; 
"  That  rill,"  he  said,  "to  toil  and  pain 
Lends  grateful  solace  !     Briglit  success 
May  only  for  a  while  sustain 
Man's  feeble  spirit !  —  Weariness 
E'en  Fortune's  minions  must  confess  ! 
Our  task  is  over  !"  —  I  perceiv'd 
My  badgeless  coat  his  eye  deceiv'd  ; 
While,  all  unwittingly,  his  tongue 
Thus  with  a  victor's  boast,  a  foe's  proud  bosom  stung ! 

"Thou  dost  mistake  !  —  One  struggle  more 
Awaits  us  ere  our  task  is  o'er ! 


Oh  !  ere  yon  glorious  orb  shall  set, 
One  struggle  for  the  Red  Rose  yet!" 

"  Alas  !  young  knight,"  he  cried,  "  methinks 

Too  much  of  precious  British  blood 

The  mother  soil  already  drinks  ! 

If  but  hope's  shadow  linger'd  yet 

To  nerve  thine  arm  and  edge  thy  sword, 

I  am  no  recreant,  and  my  word 

Should  ne'er  oppose  thy  gallant  will !" 

"  What !  thinkest  thou  to  see  me  led 
Thv  rebel  party's  scorn  and  mock, 
Meekly  to  lay  my  captive  head 
An  offering  on  your  tyrant's  block  ! 
Oh  no  !  that  felon  lot  to  shun, 
I  '11  perish  with  my  armour  on  !" 

"  Brave  youth  !  be  rul'd  !     Seem  but  to  yield, 
Quit  thou  this  blood-stain'd  heath  with  me, 
This  night  my  voice  shall  be  thy  shield, 
To-morrow  thou  shalt  wander  free  I" 

A  fatal  fire  was  in  my  heart. 
Lit  by  the  Furies  ;  "  From  my  grasp," 
I  cried,  "  this  sword  shall  ne'er  depart 
Till  I  have  breath'd  life's  latest  gasp  ! 
And  yet,  methinks,  I  too  would  fain 
From  slaughter  and  from  toil  refrain  ; 
And  since  to  thee  it  seems  not  vile 
To  yield  up  liberty  awhile, 
Give  me  thy  sword  and  purchase  peace, 
And  do  thou  follow  me,  and  let  our  parley  cease  !" 

His  soul  was  rous'd  :  "  Insulting  boy  ! 
I  would  have  spar'd  thee  !  — Heav'n  record 
How  all  unwilling  to  destroy, 
Provok'd,  I  lift  the  sated  sword, 


316  MRS.   MARGARET  HODSON. 


Which  to  the  hilt  in  slaughter  dyed, 
Appeas'd,  would  fain  have  turn'd  aside 
And  shunn'd  the  useless  homicide  !" 

We  fought :  —  and  tho'  the  stranger's  brand 

Seem'd  wielded  with  a  veteran's  hand, 

Tho'  all  my  strokes  were  spent  in  air, 

Incens'd  I  saw  his  skilful  care 

Was  bent  his  foeman's  life  to  spare  : 

I  paus'd:  —  "  Come  on,  Sir  Knight,"  I  cried, 

"  By  heaven  !  thou  boldest  me  at  bay  ! 

I  cannot  brook  thy  scornful  pride, 

Mock  not  a  man  with  childish  play  !  " 

Again  we  strove, —  a  mortal  stroke 

The  stranger's  brittle  cuirass  broke  ! 

Backward  he  reel'd,  and  from  his  side 

Impetuous  rush'd  the  boiling  tide  ; 

Oh  !  why  do  I  survive  to  tell, 

The  stroke  was  death  !  —  The  stranger  fell  I 

Then,  all  too  late,  wrath's  wasteful  flame 

Expir'd  extinguish'd  and  supprest, 

And  a  still  voice  within  my  breast 

Did  greet  me  with  the  murderer's  name ! 

The  Fury  which  had  urged  me  on, 

Forsook  me  when  her  work  was  done. 

Now  by  the  fallen  warrior's  side 

I  knelt,  and  gently  rais'd  his  head 

From  off  its  cold  and  bloody  bed. 

And  many  a  fruitless  aid  supplied  : 

And,  eager  in  the  futile  task, 

I  flung  aside  the  heavy  casque. 

And  vainly  hop'd  the  evening  breath 

Would  chase  away  the  damps  of  death  ! 

I  met  the  stranger's  lifted  eye. 

It  beamed  forgiveness  ;  yet,  methought. 

With  heaven's  blue  bolt  that  glance  was  fraught! 

I  turn'd  me  shuddering  from  his  look, 


The  solid  earth  beneath  me  shook, 
I  shriek'd  "  My  brother !  "  —  Oh  !  my  hand 
Was  with  a  brother's  life-blood  stain'd, 
And  my  accursed  sword  its  noble  source  had  drain'd  ! 

Oh  !  when  my  dying  brother  found 
What  hand  had  dealt  the  fatal  wound, 
And  when  he  saw  the  frantic  woe 
Which  tortur'd  his  unnatural  foe, 
The  hero  melting  into  man 
Swift  down  his  cheeks  the  big  drop  ran ; 
"  Oh,  Gerald  !  while  mine  eyes  can  see, 
Oh,  quick  that  envious  helm  embrace ! 
Alas  !  I  yearn  to  look  on  thee, 
And  gaze  once  more  upon  thy  face ! 
Where  is  our  sister  ?  "  — "  Drown'd,"  I  cried, 
"  And  would  to  God  my  bones  lay  bleaching  by  her  side  ! " 

There  is  a  passage  of  extraordinary  power  in  the  seventh  canto 
of  this  Poem.  It  describes  the  visit  of  Margaret  and  a  band  of 
followers  to  the  cave  of  a  sorceress  —  "  The  haggard  Woman  of 
the  Wold."  The  mind  is  excellently  prepared  for  the  interview 
by  the  description  of  the  scenery  :  — 

All  nature  sleeping  seem'd,  or  dead ; 
The  air  was  motionless  —  unheard 
Or  insects'  hum,  or  song  of  bird, — 
And  underneath  or  overhead 
No  living  thing  around  them  stirr'd  ! 
E'en  the  strange  bird,  whose  circling  flight 
Still  heralds  in  approaching  night. 
His  task  forewent,  —  nor  heavily 
The  drowsy  dorr  fled  buzzing  by  : 
Still  on  they  trod,  —  the  ghasdy  light. 
Which  hither  led  them,  past  away,  — 
Thick  rolling  clouds  obscured  the  night. 
And  to  assist  their  baffled  sight 
Not  one  small  star  shone  forth  its  ray. 
cc* 


3-18  MRS.   MARGARET  HODSON. 

At  once  upon  the  darkness  burst 
A  blaze  so  dazzling  that  each  eye, 
Abash'd  and  baffled,  clos'd  at  first, 
Abiding  not  its  brilliancy  ! 
Their  senses  reel'd,  —  for  every  sound 
Which  the  ear  loves  not,  fill'd  the  air; 
Each  din  that  reason  might  confound 
Echoed  in  ceaseless  tumult  there  ! 
Swift  whirling  wheels,  —  the  shriek  intense 
Of  one  who  dies  by  violence  ; 
Yells,  hoarse  and  deep,  from  bloodhound's  throat; 
The  night-crow's  evil  boding  note  ; 
Such  wild  and  chattering  sounds  as  throng 
Upon  the  moon-struck  idiot's  tongue ; 
The  roar  of  bursting  flames,  the  dash 
Of  waters  wildly  swelling  round. 
Which,  unrestrained  by  dyke  or  mound, 
Leap  down  at  once  with  hideous  crash, — 
And  sounds  without  a  name, —  so  drear. 
So  full  of  wonder  and  of  fear, 
As  seldom  come  to  those  who  walk  this  middle  sphere ! 

This  din  unearthly  so  prevail'd 
That  e'en  the  Queen's  high  spirit  fail'd ; 
With  fainting  heart,  and  freezing  blood, 
And  trembling  limbs,  the  Lady  stood  ! 
As  yet  nor  she  nor  Rudolph  rais'd 
Their  eyelids,  lest  some  hideous  sight 
Might  quell  their  tottering  senses  quite, 
By  that  dire  chorus  sore  amaz'd  : 
At  once  it  ceased  ;   for  over  all 
They  heard  a  voice  in  thunder  call 
"  Silence  !  "     Once,  twice,  and  thrice  it  cried, 
Then  all  those  deafeaning  sounds  sank  on  the  ear  and  died ! 
#  *  *  * 

"  If  my  word  has  force  to  bind 
The  riders  of  the  midnight  wind. 
If  from  ocean's  weltering  wave. 


MRS.   MARGARET   HODSON. 


319 


If  from  the  firm  earth's  midmost  cave, 
If  from  that  region,  cold  and  dim, 
The  wintry  land  of  Fiacim, 
Where  all  is  still,  and  frozen  sleep 
Chains  e'en  the  billows  of  tlie  dei-p  ; 
Whether  amid  the  halo  pals 
Around  the  wat'ry  moon  ye  sail, 
Or  ye  be  they  who  love  to  dwell 
In  some  dank  cemetery's  cell, 
And  drink  the  yellow  dews  tluit  fall 
In  slow  drops  from  the  stained  wall, — 
If  each  has  felt  that  word  of  might 
Which  quells  the  disobedient  sprite. 
And  grasps  him  in  his  swiftest  flight ; 
If  Balkin,  and  if  Liiridane, 
Strong  spirits,  tremble  in  w.y  chain, 
And  tread  my  circle, —  now  let  all. 
Mute  and  unseen,  attend  my  call, 
And  all  within,  around,  and  over 
The  magic  ringlet,  closely  hover  !  — 
Lady,  now  unclose  thine  eyes  ! 
Behold  !  behold  our  mysteries  !  " 

*  *  *  « 

Now  bright,  and  brighter  still,  I  ween. 
The  magic  tapers  blaze  ! 

And  with  wond'ring  heart  the  dauntless  Queen 
Beholds  how  quickly  shifts  the  scene. 
Beneath  her  deep  fix'd  gaze  ! 

On  either  side,  in  double  row, 
Do  massy  pillars  rise  ! 
Majestic  o'er  the  Lady's  brow 
The  high  roof  arches  !  and  below 
A  chequer'd  pavement  lies  ! 


And  hark !  for  the  trumpet  brays  without, 

And  the  organ  peals  within  ! 

And  louder  yet  from  a  festive  rout 


Echoes  the  wild  triumphant  shout, 
A  joy-proclaimiiifT  din  ! 

Now  open  spreads  the  ponderous  door, 
Andlo!  a  princely  band, 
With  golden  censers  toss'd  before. 
Come  sweeping-  o'er  the  chequer'd  floor, 
Link'd  kindly  hand  in  hand  ! 

NoAv  Margaret  well  her  sight  may  strain, 
And  doubt  if  sooth  it  be, 
Or  some  strange  error  of  the  brain 
That  first  amid  that  pompous  train, 
Her  haughty  self  she  see  ! 

Oh  !  scarce  might  the  indignant  tide 
Within  her  breast  be  stay'd. 
When  by  that  shadowy  Lady's  side. 
Like  gallant  bridegroom  leading  bride, 
Earl  Warwick  she  survey'd  1 

Next  Edward  comes,  of  Lancaster 

The  only  hope  and  pride  ; 

But  his  cheek  was  wan  and  his  look  was  drear, 

And  a  tear-drop  dimm'd  his  eye  so  clear. 

And  heavily  he  sigh'd  ! 

Now  wherefore,  wherefdre  sigheth  he  ? 
Why  wet  Avith  tears  the  hour? 
Since  smiling  by  his  side,  ye  see 
Of  all  that  noble  company 
The  bright  and  peerless  llow'r  ! 

For  by  the  lily  hand  he  held 
Proud  Warwick's  beauteous  heir  ! 
While  joy,  by  fair  decorum  quell'd. 
Within  the  Lady"s  bosom  swell'd, 
His  foster'd  black  despair  ! 


MRS.   MARGARET   HODSOX.  321 

Anon  that  fair  and  princely  pair 
Were  link'd  in  golden  chain  !  — 
Then  —  all  the  pageant  shrank  in  air, 
Nor  aught  of  all  that  glitter'd  there 
E'en  now,  doth  now  remain  ! 

This  does  not  satisfy  the  impatient  Queen. 

She  cries,  "  Oh  wondrous  woman,  more  ! 

Let  me  Fate's  awful  page  explore  ! 

Leaf  after  leaf  would  1  unfold. 
E'en  to  the  final  word  !  —  till  all  the  tale  be  told  !" 

Scarce  had  she  spoken,  when  behold 

The  gloomy  night  seem'd  fled  away  ! 

Two  mighty  armies,  fierce  and  bold. 

Await  the  sign  in  firm  array. 

And  armour  glanc'd,  and  courser  neigh'd  ; 

And  the  sun  on  many  a  bickering  blade 

And  many  a  gaudy  banner  play'd  ! 

On  this  side  rear'd  Lancastria's  flow'r 

Its  bright  and  blushing  head  ; 

And  high  above  th'  opposing  pow'r 

Her  paler  leaf  the  rival  spread  ! 

And,  hark  !  the  signal !  —  Now  begin. 

Of  those  who  lose  and  those  who  win. 

The  strife,  the  shout,  the  mortal  din  ! 

Behold  !  — they  meet !  —  they  clash  !  —  they  close  !  — 

They  mix  !  —  Sworn  friends  and  deadly  foes, 

In  one  dire  mass,  one  struggling  host, 

All  order  and  distinction  lost. 
Roll  headlong,  guideless,  blind,  like  waves  together  toss'd  ! 

But  mark  the  Queen  !  —  the  hue  of  death 
Blanches  her  cheek  !  —  her  lab'ring  breath, 
Her  hard-clasp'd  hands,  her  blood-shot  eye, 
Speak  nature's  utmost  agony  ! 
The  cold  drops  on  her  writhed  brow 
Her  heart's  convulsive  struggles  show, 
41 


322  MRS.    MARGARET   HODSON. 


And —  hark  !  that  scream  !  —  scarce  can  the  ear 
Its  shrill  and  piercing  echo  bear  ! 
"  Hold  !  monsters!   fiends  in  human  mould  ! 
Oh  !  stay  your  bloody  hands  !  remorseless  monsters,  hold  !" 

"  Come,  cheer  thee  !  cheer  thee,  mighty  Dame ! 
These  are  but  toys  of  airy  frame  ; 
Faint  shadowings  forth  of  things  to  be  ; 
Mere  mockings  of  futurity  ! 
But  see  !  — like  morning  mists  they  fly,  — 
See  how  they  melt  in  vacancy  ! 
Oh,  bid  them  quit  thy  mind  as  they  elude  thine  eye  ! 

"  Now,  ere  our  royal  guests  go  hence, 

One  pageant  more  our  art  must  show, — 

Come,  let  us  stir  each  mortal  sense 

Till  rage  or  transport,  joy  or  woe, 

In  either  bosom  overflow  ! 

Night  wanes  apace  !  —  prepare,  prepare  ! 

'T  is  time,  —  'tis  time  our  task  were  done  ! 

My  sprites  and  I  must  journey  far 

Ere  the  grey  dawning  shall  declare 

The  coming  of  the  sun  ! 

Prepare  !" 

With  crowned  head  and  ermin'd  robe 
Grasping  the  sceptre  and  the  globe. 
While  a  vile  rabble's  uncheck'd  tide 
Roll'd  after  swells  his  regal  pride, 
Stalks  slowly  round  the  charmed  ring. 
What  seems  in  act  and  state  a  king ! 
Amid  the  gems  which  deck  his  brow 
Triumphant  nods  the  Rose  of  Snow, 
Wliile,  crush'd  beneath  the  despot's  tread, 
The  Red  Rose  droops  her  blushing  head  ! 
What  lightnings  flash  from  Margaret's  eyes 
While  "  Long  live  Richard !"  rends  the  skies  ! 
For  he  it  is,  in  shapeless  frame, 


Dark  scowl,  and  halting  step,  the  same 
Before  him  waves  his  well-known  crest. 
That  symbol  of  his  soul,  the  grizzly  arctic  beast ! 

In  the  tenth  and  last  canto,  the  poet  gives  a  vivid  description 
of  the  battle  of  Tewksbury,  into  the  spirit  of  which  she  enters 
with  all  the  vivacity  and  energy  of  a  "warrior  tried."  Marga- 
ret's bravery  and  conduct  on  the  fatal  field  are  most  characteristic, 
and  are  powerfully  drawn.  Before  the  conflict,  a  priest  appeals 
to  the  Queen,  and  prays  her  to  stay  the  shedding  of  more  English 
blood,  adjuring  her  by  the  mandates  of  religion.  Very  fine  is  her 
reply :  — 

Oh,  holy  father !  if  indeed 

To  mutter'd  prayer,  or  counted  bead. 

The  distant  powers  of  heaven  give  heed, 

I  know  not :  —  But  't  is  now  too  late 

By  humbleness  to  conquer  fate  ! 

Long  since  these  eyes  have  done  with  teai-s ! 

Harden'd  by  many  wintry  years, 

My  heart  its  wrongs  unshrinking  bears  ! 

My  lips  have  ceased  to  supplicate, 

My  knees  to  bend,  and  I  do  wait 

With  resolute  and  settled  soul 

Till  I  have  seen,  and  prov'd  the  whole  ! 

The  battle-scene  is  too  long  to  be  transcribed,  and  too  complete 
a  picture  to  admit  of  an  extract.  I  give,  therefore,  the  conclusion 
of  the  poem  only  ;  descriptive  of  the  death  of  the  two  royal  pri- 
soners, the  Queen  and  Prince  Edward. 

In  Tewksbury's  walls  triumphant  York 
Refresh' d  him  from  his  bloody  Avork, 
While  Gloster,  Clarence,  Hastings,  Grey, 
Blythe  sharers  in  th'  eventful  fray. 
Boast  o'er  the  perils  of  the  day  ; 
And  they  have  wash'd  their  crimson  hands, 
And  sheath'd  their  weary  swords,  when  lo  ! 


324 


MRS.   MARGARET  HODSON. 


In  helpless  plight  before  them  stands 
The  battle's  crown, —  their  royal  foe  ! 
*  *  *  * 

Alone,  defenceless,  Edward  stood 
Encompass'd  by  these  men  of  blood  ! 
E'en  yet  a  spark  of  royal  pride 
Flash'd  from  his  eye,  the  hectic  bloom 
Rush'd  o'er  his  features,  and  defied. 
With  gallant  show,  th'  impending  doom  ; 
Such  mournful,  stern,  majestic  grace 
Dwells  on  the  ruin'd  Prince's  face, 
That  they  who  hate  him,  half  respect 
The  virtue  by  their  fury  wreck'd  ! 
E'en  York  deliberates,  and  surveys 
His  victim's  form  with  troubled  gaze, — 
Did  he  relent  ?  No  !  —  From  his  breast 
He  drove  in  scorn  th'  intrusive  guest, 
And  then,  in  thund'ring  voice,  his  captive  foe  address'd: 


"  Who  art  thou,  stripling?  what  impell'd 
Thy  puny  pride  to  wake  the  ire 
Which  has  consum'd  thee  in  its  fire  ? 
Who  taught  thy  boyish  arm  to  wield 
Rebellion's  blade  ?     What  frantic  rage, 
What  demon  was  't,  who  bade  thee  dare 
With  fate  the  desperate  fight  to  wage. 
And  brave  thy  sov'reign  to  the  war  ? 
Kneel,  stubborn  traitor  !  and  confess 
What  message  from  below  provok'd  thee  to  transgress  ?" 

"  Dost  thou  not  know  me,  York  ?     'T  is  strange 

How  memory  fails  with  fortune's  change  ! 

But  I  will  tell  thee, — I  am  one 

To  whom  thy  knee,  unbid,  should  bend  ; 

I  came  to  claim  my  father's  throne, 

And  my  fair  birthright  to  defend. 

And  with  God's  favour,  to  chastise 

Mine  own  and  England's  enemies  ! 


Now  thou  art  answer'd  !  —  and  my  tongue 
Would  do  its  royal  office  wrong 
To  parley  with  thee  more  !     Thou  knowest 
Full  well,  usurping  York,  to  whom  that  place  thou  owest !' 

Nor  needed  farther  to  provoke 
Of  fell  revenge  the  savage  stroke  ; 
York  rush'd  upon  the  unarm'd  youth 
And  smote  him  rudely  on  the  mouth 
With  mailed  hand  ;  —  that  outrage  borne 
The  rest  was  easy  !     Edward's  soul. 
Rejoicing,  from  its  spoils  forlorn, 
Escapes  to  its  eternal  goal 
And  closes  with  a  thankful  sigh. 

Life's  long  and  lingering  tragedy  ! 

*  *  *  * 

Now  from  without,  a  parley  rude 

Does  on  their  wondering  ears  intrude  : 

York  shudder'd, —  e'en  his  callous  breast 

Trembled  to  meet  th'  unwelcome  guest 

Whose  voice  claim'd  entrance  !     It  was  she, 

She  who  was  Queen  of  England  !  —late 

The  people's  gaze,  the  voice  of  fate, 

To  whom  the  loftiest  bent  his  knee  ! 

A  fond  fallacious  hope  had  led 

The  mother's  frantic  footsteps  thither, — 

She  look'd  upon  the  weapons  red, 

She  guess'd  what  blood  their  points  had  shed. 

And  felt  that  fond  hope  wither  ! 

"Then  ye  have  done  the  deed ! "  she  said: 

"  I  come  too  late  !  —  Ye  might  have  staid 

One  moment  longer  !     I  would  fain 

Have  kiss'd  my  living  son  again. 

And  whisper'd  somewhat  in  his  ear 

Ere  he  began  th'  unknown  career 

On  which  ye  sent  him  !  —  Hark  ye,  Lords  ! 

I  long  to  feel  those  reeking  swords  ! 

In  mercy  kill  me  !     Will  ye  not  ? 

DD 


326  MRS.   MARGARET   HODSON. 


Ye  sons  of  York,  have  ye  forgot 
How  many  a  deep  and  bitter  debt 
Ye  owe  the  hated  Margaret  ? 
Where  is  my  child  ?     Mine  only  one  ! 
Oh,  God!  Oh,  God!     Is  this  my  son? 

"  Cold,  cold  and  pale  !  —  Some  flatterers  said 
That  heav'n  still  guards  the  holy  head ! 
Why  this  grim  heap  did  late  contain 
A  soul  which  never  crime  did  stain, 
Pure,  gentle,  innocent !  —  And  yet 
Your  swords  are  with  his  life-blood  wet, 
And  heav'n  the  while  look'd  smiling  on 
Nor  aim'd  its  thunderbolts,  when  the  black  deed  was  done ! 

"  Monsters  !    A  mother's  curse  lie  strong 
And  heavy  on  you  !    May  the  tongue, 
The  ceaseless  tongue  which  well  I  ween 
Lives  in  the  murderer's  murky  breast. 
With  goading  whispers,  fell  and  keen, 
Make  havoc  of  your  rest ! 
For  ever  in  your  midnight  dream 
May  the  wan,  wintry  smile,  which  stays 
On  yon  cold  lips,  appal  your  gaze, 
And  many  a  madden'd  mother's  scream 
Ring  in  your  ears,  till  ye  awake 
And  every  unstrung  limb  with  horror's  palsy  shake  !" 

An  impulse  like  the  grasp  of  death 
Now  hardly  held  her  gasping  breath  ! 
Dire  was  the  conflict !     Mute  she  stood, 
Striving  and  fain  to  utter  more. 
Her  writhing  features  struggled  sore 
With  black  convulsion  ;  till  the  blood 
Burst  from  her  hps,  a  ghasdy  flood, 
Then  Nature  gave  the  combat  o'er. 
And  the  heart-stricken  Queen  fell  senseless  on  the  floor ! 


MARY  RUSSELL  MITFORD. 

Miss  Mitford  is,  I  tliink,  the  most  thoroughly  English  of  all 
our  Female  Poets,  —  I  mean  -S'ox-on-English.  Her  verse,  like 
her  prose,  has  the  strong,  sanguine,  cheerful  robustness  which 
seems  characteristic  of  the  Anglo-Saxon  constitution.  Miss  Mit- 
ford's  writings  always  suggest  to  me  golden  hair,  blue  eyes, 
ruddy  cheeks  and  vigorous  limbs :  —  and  her  thoughts  have  a 
large,  full,  dimpled,  rounded  expression  which  is  very  healthful 
and  cheerful  to  look  upon.  I  never  read  Miss  Mitford's  Poems 
without  feeling  that  I  have  before  me  a  sound,  comprehensive, 
true-seeing,  and  widely  sympathising  mind,  very  just  in  its 
views,  utterly  unaffected  in  its  sentiments,  and  unwaveringly 
true  in  its  philosophy :  —  whilst  her  mode  of  expression  is 
marked  by  a  graceful  and  refreshing  simplicity  which  is  very 
rare  in  minds  so  fully  stored. 

Miss  Mitford's  poetical  works  comprise  almost  every  variety 
of  verse,  from  the  simplest  to  the  loftiest ;  and  she  displays  the 
same  power  and  excellence  in  all.  There  is  less  inequality  in 
Miss  Mitford's  writings,  wide  as  is  their  grasp,  than  in  the  pro- 
ductions of  almost  any  other  author  in  the  language.  You  see 
her  wliole  mind  in  all  she  does  ;  and  a  beautiful,  loveable  mind  it 
is.  Whether  the  work  be  Sonnet  or  Tragedy,  Song  or  Descrip- 
tive Poem  ;  whether  the  subject  be  homely  or  heavenly,  rustic 
or  classical ;  the  same  strong,  unaffected,  sympathetic  spirit  is 
similarly  manifest :  and,  let  her  write  what  she  will,  she  is  always 
in  earnest.  A  Daisy  in  her  garden  is  the  source  of  as  true  an 
emotion  as  the  picture  of  Jerusalem  during  the  Crucifixion ;  and 
her  sympathy  is  as  powerfully  excited  towards  the  little  Forget- 
me-not  "  that  loves  on  sliadowy  banks  to  lie,"  as  towards  the 
noble  Rienzi,  or  the  martyred  Charles  Stuart. 

I  subjoin  without  comment  some  varied  extracts,  in  order  that 
Miss  Mitford's  wide  range  of  sympathy  may  be  fairly  seen. 


I.      INFANT   LOVE. 
{^From  Blanch,  a  Poem.) 

If  in  this  world  of  breathing  harm, 
There  lurk  one  universal  charm, 
One  povv^er,  which,  to  no  clime  confin'd, 
Sways  either  sex  and  every  mind  ; 
Which  cheers  the  monarch  on  his  throne ; 
The  slave  beneath  the  torrid  zone  ; 
The  soldier  rough,  the  letter'd  sage, 
And  careless  youth,  and  helpless  age  ; 
And  all  that  live,  and  breathe,  and  move, — 
'T  is  the  pure  kiss  of  infant  love  ! 


II.     THE    MARCH    OF    MIND. 

Fair  Nature  smiled  in  all  her  bowers, 
But  man,  the  master-work  of  God, 

Unconscious  of  his  latent  powers. 
The  tangled  forest  trod. 

Without  a  hope,  without  an  aim 
Beyond  the  sloth's,  the  tiger's  life, 
His  only  pleasure  sleep  or  strife, 

And  war  his  only  fame. 

Furious  alike  and  causeless  beam'd 
His  lasting  hate,  his  transient  love: 

And  e'en  the  mother's  fondness  seem'd 
The  instinct  of  the  dove. 

The  mental  world  was  wrapp'd  in  night 
Though  some,  the  diamonds  of  the  mine, 
Burst  through  the  shrouding  gloom  to  shine 

With  self-emitted  liffht. 


MARY  RUSSELL   MITFORD.  329 


But  see  the  glorious  dawn  unfold 
The  brightest  day  that  lurks  behind  ! 

The  march  of  armies  may  be  told, 
But  not  the  march  of  mind. 

Instruction  !  child  of  Heaven  and  earth! 
As  heat  expands  the  vernal  flower, 
So  wisdom,  goodness,  freedom,  power, 

From  thee  derive  their  birth. 

From  thee,  aU  mortal  bliss  we  draw  ; 

From  thee.  Religion's  blessed  fruit ; 
From  thee,  the  good  of  social  law. 

And  man  redeem'd  from  brute. 
From  thee,  all  ties  to  virtue  dear, 

The  father's,  brother's,  husband's  name 

From  thee  the  sweet  and  holy  fame 
That  never  cost  a  tear. 

Oh  I  breathe  thy  soul  along  the  gale, 
That  Britons  sliU,  in  generous  strife. 

Knowledge  and  freedom  may  inhale,— 
The  mingled  breath  of  life  ! 

So  shall  they  share  what  they  possess. 
And  show  to  distant  worlds  thy  charms 
Wisdom  and  peace  their  only  arms. 

Their  only  aim  to  bless. 


in.      THE    VOICE   or    PRAISE. 

There  is  a  voice  of  magic  power 

To  charm  the  old,  delight  the  young  — 
In  lordly  hall,  in  rustic  bower. 

In  every  clime,  in  every  tongue ; 

Howe'er  its  sweet  vibration  rung. 
In  whispers  low,  in  poet's  lays. 

There  lives  not  one  who  has  not  hung 
Enraptur'd  on  the  voice  of  praise. 
42  DD* 


330  MARY   RUSSELL    MITFORD. 

The  timid  child,  at  that  soft  voice 
Lifts  for  a  moment's  space  the  eye  ; 

It  bids  the  fluttering  heart  rejoice, 
And  stays  the  step  prepar'd  to  fly : 
'T  is  pleasure  breathes  that  short  quick  sigh, 

And  flushes  o'er  that  rosy  face  ; 
Whilst  shame  and  infant  modesty 


The  lovely  maiden's  dimpled  cheek 

At  tliat  sweet  voice  still  deeper  glows ; 
Her  quivering  lips  in  vain  would  seek, 

To  hide  the  bliss  her  eyes  disclose  ; 

The  charm  her  sweet  confusion  shows 
Oft  springs  from  some  low  broken  word : 

O  Praise  !  to  her  how  sweetly  flows 
Thine  accent  from  the  lov'd  one  heard  ! 

The  hero,  when  a  people's  voice 

Proclaims  their  darling  victor  near, 
Feels  he  not  then  his  soul  rejoice. 

The  shouts  of  love,  of  praise,  to  hear  ? 

Yes  !  fame  to  generous  minds  is  dear  — 
It  pierces  to  their  inmost  core  : 

He  weeps,  who  never  shed  a  tear ; 
He  trembles,  who  ne'er  shook  before. 

The  poet,  too  ;  —  ah  !  well  I  deem 

Small  is  the  need  the  tale  to  tell ; 
Who  knows  not  that  his  thought,  his  dream, 

On  thee  at  noon,  at  midnight,  dwell  ? 

Who  knows  not  that  tliy  magic  spell 
Can  charm  his  every  care  away? 

In  memory,  cheer  his  gloomy  cell ; 
In  hope,  can  lend  a  deathless  day  ? 

'T  is  sweet  to  M'atch  Afiection's  eye  : 
'J'o  mark  the  tear  with  love  replete  ; 


MARY   RUSSELL   MITFORD.  331 


To  feel  the  softly-breathing  sigh, 

When  Friendship's  lips  the  tones  repeat; 
But  oh  !  a  thousand  times  more  sweet 
The  praise  of  those  we  love  to  hear  ! 

Like  balmy  showers  in  summer  heat, 
It  falls  upon  the  greedy  ear. 

The  lover  lulls  his  rankling  wound, 

By  dwelling  on  his  fair  one's  name  ; 
The  mother  listens  for  the  sound 

Of  her  young  warrior's  growing  fame. 

Thy  voice  can  soothe  the  mourning  dame 
Of  her  soul's  wedded  partner  riven, 

Who  cherishes  the  hallow'd  flame, 
Parted  on  earth,  to  meet  in  heaven  !  — 

That  voice  can  quiet  passion's  mood, 

Can  humble  merit  raise  on  high  ; 
And  from  the  wise,  and  from  the  good. 

It  breathes  of  immortality  ! 

There  is  a  lip,  there  is  an  eye 
Where  most  I  love  to  see  it  shine. 

To  hear  it  speak,  to  feel  it  sigh,  — 
My  mother  !  need  I  say  't  is  thine  ! 


ON    A    PICTURE    OF    JERUSALEM    AT   THE    TIME    OF    THE 
CRUCIFIXION. 

Jerusalem  !   and  at  the  fatal  hour  ! 

No  need  of  dull  and  frivolous  question  here  ! 

No  need  of  human  agents  to  make  clear 
The  most  tremendous  act  of  human  power  ! 
The  distant  cross  ;  the  rent  and  fallen  tower  ; 

The  opening  graves,  from  which  the  dead  uprear 


332  MARY  RUSSELL  MITFORD. 


Their  buried  forms  ;  the  elemental  fear, 
When  horrid  light  and  horrid  darkness  lower ; 

All  tell  the  holy  tale  :  the  mystery 
And  solace  of  our  souls.     Awe-struck  we  gaze 

On  this  so  mute  yet  eloquent  history  ! 
Awe-struck  and  sad,  at  length  our  eyes  we  raise 

To  go  :  —  yet  oft  return  that  scene  to  see, 
Too  full  of  the  great  theme  to  think  of  praise. 

How  varied  is  the  style  of  these  four  Poems  !  We  have,  first, 
the  simplicity  of  a  child ;  next  a  pure  and  noble  intellectuality : 
then  a  frank  and  picturesque  burst  of  moral  eloquence  ;  and, 
lastly,  a  fine  religious  bending  of  the  spirit  until  it  seems  to 
become  almost  speechless  with  the  awe  it  feels.  But  for  a  full 
view  of  our  fair  Poet's  powers  we  must  go  farther  still.  I  espe- 
cially refer  the  reader  to  the  following  Poem  of 

ANTIGONE. 

'T  was  noon  ;  beneath  the  ardent  ray 
Proud  Thebes  in  all  her  glory  lay  ; 
On  pillar'd  porch,  on  marble  wall, 
On  temple,  portico  and  hall. 
The  summer  sunbeams  gaily  fall ; 
Bathing,  as  in  a  flood  of  light, 
Each  sculptur'd  frieze  and  column  bright 
Dirce's  pure  stream  meanders  there, 
A  silver  mirror  clear  and  fair  ; 
Now  giving  back  the  deep-blue  sky, 
And  now  the  city  proud  and  high, 

And  now  tlie  sacred  grove ; 
And  sometimes  on  its  wave  a  shade. 
Making  the  light  more  lovely,  play'd. 

When  some  close-brooding  dove 
Flew  from  her  nest,  on  rapid  wing. 
For  needful  food  across  the  spring. 

Or  sought  her  home  of  love. 
The  very  air  in  that  calm  hour. 


Seem'd  trembling  with  the  conscious  power 

Of  its  own  balminess  ; 
The  herbage,  if  by  light  foot  press'd, 
Sent  up  sweet  odours  from  its  breast ;  — 

Sure,  if  coy  happiness 
E'er  dwelt  on  earth,  't  was  in  that  clime 
Of  beauty,  in  that  noon-day  prime 

Of  thrilling  pleasantness '. 

But  who  are  they  before  the  gate 

Of  Thebes  conven'd  in  silent  state  ? 

Sad,  grey-hair'd  men,  with  looks  bow'd  down, 

Slaves  to  a  tyrant's  haughty  frown ; 

And  he  the  wicked  king,  and  she 

The  royal  maid  Antigone, 

Passing  to  death.     Awhile  she  laid 

Her  clasp'd  hands  on  her  heart,  and  stay'd 

Her  firmer  step,  as  if  to  look 

On  the  fair  world  which  she  forsook  ; 

And  then  the  sunbeams  on  her  face 

Fell,  as  on  sculptur'd  Nymph  or  Grace, 

Lighting  her  features  with  a  glow 

That  seemed  to  mock  their  patient  woe. 

She  stay'd  her  onward  step,  and  stood 
A  moment's  space ;  —  oh,  what  a  flood 
Of  recollected  anguish  stole 
In  that  brief  moment  o'er  her  soul ! 
The  concentrated  grief  of  years. 
The  mystery,  horror,  guilt  and  tears, 
The  story  of  her  life  past  by, 
E'en  in  the  heaving  of  a  sigh ! 

She  thought  upon  the  blissful  hour 
Of  infancy,  when,  as  a  flower 

Set  in  the  sun,  she  grew, 
Without  a  fear,  without  a  care, 
Enjoying,  innocent  and  fair, 


334  MARY   RUSSELL  MITFORD. 


As  buoyant  as  the  mountain  air, 

As  pure  as  morning  dew  ; 
'Till  burst  at  once  like  lightning's  flame, 
The  tale  Ave  tremble  but  to  name, 
Of  them  from  whom  her  being  came, 

Poor  ffidipus,  and  one, 
The  wretched  yet  unconscious  dame, 

Who  wedded  with  her  son  ! 

Then  horror  fast  on  horror  rose  : 
She  maddening  died  beneath  her  woes, 
Whilst  crownless,  sightless,  hopeless,  he 
Dared  to  outlive  tliat  agony. 
Through  many  a  trackless  path  and  wild 
The  blind  man  and  his  duteous  child 
Wandered,  'till  pitying  Theseus  gave 
The  shelter  brief,  the  mystic  grave. 
One  weary  heart  finds  rest  at  last ; 
But,  when  to  Thebes  the  maiden  pass'd, 

The  god's  stern  wrath  was  there  :  — 
Her  brothers  each  by  other  slain, 
And  one  upon  the  bloody  plain 
Left  festering  in  the  sun  and  rain, 

Tainting  the  very  air  ; 
For  none,  the  haughty  Creon  said. 
On  pain  of  death  should  yield  the  dead 

Burial,  or  tear,  or  sigh  ; 
And,  for  alone  she  feebly  strove 
To  pay  the  decent  rites  of  love. 

The  pious  maid  must  die. 

She  paus'd  —  and  in  that  moment  rose 

As  in  a  mirror  all  her  woes  ; 

She  spake  —  the  flush  across  her  cheek 

Told  of  the  woe  she  Avould  not  speak. 

As  a  brief  thought  of  Ila-mon  stole 

With  bitter  love  across  her  soul. 

"  I  die, —  and  what  is  death  to  me 


MARY   RUSSELL  MITFORD.  335 


But  freedom  from  long  misery  ? 

Joyful  to  fall  before  my  time, 

I  die  ;  and,  tyrant,  hear  my  crime  : 

I  did  but  strive  his  limbs  to  shield 

From  the  gaunt  prowlers  of  the  field  ; 

I  did  but  weave,  as  nature  weaves, 

A  shroud  of  grass  and  moss  and  leaves  ; 

I  did  but  scatter  dust  to  dust. 

As  the  desert  wind  on  marble  bust; 

I  did  but  as  the  patient  wren 

And  the  kind  redbreast  do  for  men. 

I  die  —  and  what  is  death  to  me  ? 

But  tremble  in  thy  tyranny. 

Tyrant  !  and  ye,  base  slaves  of  power, 

Tremble  at  freedom's  coming  hour  ! 

I  die  —  and  death  is  bliss  to  me  !" 

Then,  with  a  step  erect  and  free. 

With  brow  upraised  and  even  breath. 

The  royal  virgin  passed  to  death. 

Nothing,  I  think,  can  exceed  the  pure  taste  which  characterises' 
this  exquisite  poem.  Nowhere  is  a  classical  story  more  classi- 
cally treated.  The  spirit  of  the  poem  is  wholly  Greek.  Yet  it 
has  a  charm  which  is  more  than  classical.  There  is  a  life  m  it 
which  we  rarely  find  in  the  classical  models.  To  the  statuesque 
Miss  Mitford  adds  the  picturesque  ;  to  correctness  of  form  she 
adds  beauty  of  colour ;  to  chasteness  of  design  she  adds  beauty 
of  expression.  The  foregoing  poem  amply  illustrates  these  asser- 
tions. How  beautifully  Thebes  is  pictured  to  form  the  background 
of  the  scene  !  And  how  the  whole  description  is  made  instinct 
with  moving  life,  as  the 

"  close  brooding  dove, 


Flies  from  her  nest,  on  rapid  wing, 
For  needful  food  across  the  spring." 

It  Ls  in  passages  like  this  that  Miss  Mitford's  strength  is  best 
seen :  and  they  abound  in  every  page  of  her  poetry. 


336  MARY   RUSSELL  MITFORD. 

It  has  been  said  that  purity  of  sentiment  will  always  produce 
purity  of  style.  Miss  Mitford's  compositions  certainly  bear  out 
the  assertion.  I  offer  the  following  sweedy-expressed  Sonnet  in 
proof:  I  might  select  any  our  poetess  has  written,  for  the  same 
purpose. 

TO    MY   MOTHER    SLEEPING. 

Sleep  on,  my  mother !  sweet  and  innocent  dreams 
Attend  thee,  best  and  dearest  I      Dreams  that  gild 
Life's  clouds  like  setting  suns,  with  pleasure  tilled, 
And  saindy  joy,  such  as  thy  mind  beseems, — 
Thy  mind  where  never  stormy  passion  gleams. 

Where  their  soft  nest  the  dovelike  virtues  buUd, 
And  calmest  thoughts,  like  violets  distill'd. 
Their  fragrance  mingle  with  bright  wisdom's  beams. 

Sleep  on,  my  mother !  not  the  Uly's  bell 
So  sweet;  not  the  enamour'd  west-wind's  sighs 

That  shake  the  dew-drop  from  her  snowy  cell 
So  gentle ;  not  that  dew-drop  ere  it  flies 
So  pure.     E'en  slumber  loves  with  thee  to  dwell, 
Oh,  model  most  beloved  of  good  and  wise. 

No  reader  of  "  Our  Village"  can  have  failed  to  notice  the 
coundess  dramatic  touches  which  those  delightful  prose  sketches 
exhibit:  no  reader  will  therefore  quarrel  with  me  for  saying  that 
Miss  Mitford's  genius  is  essentially  of  a  dramatic  kind.  The  pic- 
turesqueness  of  her  style,  the  universality  of  her  sympathies,  and 
the  perspicacity  of  her  mental  vision,  all  tend  to  make  her  a 
dramatist.  And  a  very  powerful  dramatist  she  proves  herself. 
No  one  who  reads  her  volume  of  Dramatic  Scenes  can  doubt  my 
assertion.  These  scenes  display  not  merely  a  large  measure  ot 
the  creative  faculty  which  results  in  the  invention  of  striking  in- 
cidents and  effective  situations,  but  the  existence  in  a  high  degree 
of  that  individualising  faculty  which  selects,  animates,  and  sus- 
tains human  character,  which  surrounds  the  fictitious  creation  of 
the  stage  with  real  human  interest,  and  which  makes  each  person 
on  the  scene  a  separate,  complete,  and  consistent  being.    Besides 


MARY   RUSSELL   MITFORD.  337 

this,  Miss  Mitford  exhibits  that  spiritualising  faculty  which  alone 
elevates  Drama  into  Poetry.  She  always  avoids  harsh  outline 
and  too-literal  fact,  and  she  gives  her  creations  an  air  of  remote- 
ness which  effectually  preserves  them  from  ever  degenerating 
into  common-place.  She  embellishes  her  scenes,  too,  with  such 
sweet  flowers  of  fancy,  that  our  very  taste  is  moralised  by  her, 
and  our  conception  detached  from  all  that  is  gross,  vulgar,  and 
sensual. 

So  many  fine  passages  in  illustration  of  these  remarks  crowd 
upon  my  memory  that  I  find  the  greatest  difliculty  in  selecting  a 
specimen.  Cunigiinda'' s  T^oiv,  in  which  a  proud  heart  is  proudly 
punished,  The  Painter's  Daughter,  the  death  of  Fair  Rosamond, 
The  Bridal  Eve,  The  Captive,  all  claim  a  place,  whilst  I  have 
scarcely  space  for  one  of  them.  But  as  I  am  obliged  to  resolve, 
I  choose 


THE    MASQUE    OF    THE    SEASONS. 
GIACOMO. 

Where  is  Fiesco  now  ? 

ISABELLA. 

Oh,  you  should  see  him! 
Celia  is  showing  him  her  gay  saloon 

Sparkling  with  lamps  and  flowers,  and  her  quaint  masque 
Of  country  lasses,  cunningly  prankt  out 
With  rustic  tancy,     Tiie  little  thief 
Hath  stolen  all  my  roses  —  all  save  this  — 
To  deck  the  pretty  damsel  she  calls  Spring, 
And  there  is  she  turning  them  round  and  round 
To  be  admired  ;  and  there  are  they,  all  blushes, 
Curtsying  with  coy  and  shame-faced  bashfulness, 
Yet  full  of  a  strange  joy  ;   and  there  is  he. 
Dropping  kind  words  and  kinder  smiles  about, 
Delighting  and  delighted.     We  must  join  them. 

43  EE 


338  MARY  RUSSELL   MITFORD. 


THE    MASQUE. 

Enter  Spring. 

SPRING. 

Room  for  the  jocund  queen  of  new-born  flowers  ! 

Bathed  in  light  fragrant  airs  and  sunny  showers 

I  come.     Beneath  my  steps  the  grass  is  set 

With  violets,  cowslips,  daffodils,  all  wet 

With  freshest  dew  as  any  crystal  clear. 

The  youth,  the  smile,  the  music  of  the  year 

Am  I.     Who  loves  not  Spring  ?     Gay  songs  of  birds 

Tell  my  delights,  and  rough  uncouthest  words 

Of  shepherds.     Fairest  ladies,  here  are  posies 

Of  crisp  curled  hyacinths,  pale  maiden  roses, 

And  bright  anemonies  of  richer  dyes 

Than  rubies,  amethysts,  or  azure  eyes 

Of  sapphires.     Summer  !  hasten,  leafy  queen  ! 

And  Autumn  help  to  bind  my  garlands  sheen  ! 

Enter   Sdjimer. 
SUMMER. 

In  a  green  nook,  whose  mossy  bed  receives 
Shade  from  my  own  unnumbered  world  of  leaves, 
I  heard  a  voice  called  Summer. 

SPRING. 

Hast  thou  not 
Brought  flowery  tribute  ?     To  thy  favourite  grot 
I  sent  my  deftist,  trustiest  messenger, 
A  dappled  butterfly,  whose  pinions  whir 
Like  thy  mailed  beetle's.      He  was  charg'd  to  say 
That  great  Doria  would  be  here  to-day  — 
Did  not  that  rouse  thee  ? 


SUMMER. 

Yes  !  his  name  hath  won 
To  my  deep  solitudes,  where  scarce  the  sun 
Can  pierce  the  heavy  umbrage.     The  cool  places 
To  which  the  sweltering  noon  the  wild  deer  chases ; 
The  shelter'd  pools,  which  oft  the  swallow's  winglet 
Skims,  or  where  lazily  her  darker  ringlet 
Some  Naiad  floating  in  her  beauty  laves  ; 
The  little  bubbling  springs,  whose  tiny  waves 
Do  murmur  gently  round  old  pollard  trees, 
MingUng  their  music  with  the  stir  of  bees ; 
All  these  are  mine  :  mine  the  wild  forest  glade 
Where  the  bright  sun  comes  flickering  through  the  shade, 
Gilding  the  turfy  wood-walks  ;  and  his  name 
Is  wafted  through  them  with  an  odorous  fame, 
Balm  breathing.     Take  my  tribute.     Strawberries  bred 
In  shrubby  dingles  :  cherries  round  and  red. 
And  flowers  that  love  the  sun. 

SPRING. 

Sweet  flowers  are  thine, 
Carnation,  pink,  acacia,  jessamine, 
With  coral-budded  myrtle,  which  discloses 
White  pearly  blossoms,  and  perfumed  musk  roses. 

Enter  Autumn. 
AUTUMN. 

Fair  queen  of  leaves  and  flowers,  give  way  to  me, 
To  Autumn  and  his  fruits.     Do  you  not  see 
How  I  am  laden  ?     Corn  and  grapes  are  here 
And  olives.     Of  the  riches  of  the  year 
I  am  the  joyful  gatherer.     Merry  nights 
Have  I  at  harvest-time,  and  rare  delights 
When  the  brown  vintagers  beneath  the  trees 
Dance  and  drink  in  the  sunset  and  the  breeze. 
And  I  have  brought  young  tendrils  of  the  vine 
Amidst  your  gayer  garlands  to  entwine 
For  great  Doria. 


340  MARY   RUSSELL   MITFORD. 


Enter  Winter. 
SPRING. 

Ah  !  what  form  is  this? 
Stern  Winter,  hence  !     Come  not  to  mar  our  bliss 
With  frosts  and  tempests.     Icy  season,  hence  ! 
See,  Summer  sickens  at  thy  influence, 
And  I  can  feel  my  coronet  withering. 


Hence  then,  thyself,  fair,  dainty,  delicate  thing ! 

Light  fluttering  playmate  of  the  infant  loves. 

Mistress  of  butterflies  and  turtle-doves, 

Hence  !  and  bear  with  thee  that  gay  blooming  toy, 

To  a  fair  girl  from  an  enamoured  boy 

Fit  homage,  not  for  heroes.     In  this  form 

Thou  hail'st  a  friend,  Doria  !     The  wild  storm, 

The  raging  of  the  elements,  the  wave 

That  Winter  flings  aloft,  are  to  the  brave 

A  victory  and  a  glory.     Thou  hast  breasted 

My  billows,  mountain-high  and  foamy-crested. 

And  vanquished  them.     And  I  can  guerdon  thee, 

I,  barren  Winter,  from  the  unfading  tree 

To  valour  consecrate.     This  laurel  crown 

Wear  !  as  it  clips  thy  temples,  thy  renown 

Will  cast  upon  its  shining  leaves  a  light 

Ineff'able.     Approach,  ye  Seasons  bright, 

With  gifts  and  garlands  ;  let  us  offer  here 

The  blended  homage  of  the  circling  year. 

Some  exquisite  snatches  of  song,  sometimes  of  Shaksperean 
character,  occur  occasionally  in  the  Dramatic  Scenes.  One  of 
them  I  transcribe. 

BRIDAL    SONG. 

Forth  the  lovely  bride  ye  bring ; 
Gayest  flowers  before  her  fling. 


MARY  RUSSELL  MITFORD.  341 


From  your  high-piled  baskets  spread, 
Maidens  of  the  fairy  tread  ! 
Strew  them  far,  and  wide,  and  high, 
A  rosy  shower  'twixt  earth  and  sky  ! 

Strew  about !     Strew  about ! 
Bright  jonquil,  in  golden  pride. 
Fair  carnation,  freak'd  and  dyed, 

Strew  about!     Strew  about! 
Dark-eyed  pinks,  with  fringes  light. 
Rich  geraniums,  clustering  bright. 

Strew  about !     Strew  about ! 
Flaunting  pea,  and  harebell  blue. 
And  damask-rose  of  deepest  hue. 
And  purest  lilies,  maidens,  strew ! 

Strew  about !     Strew  about ! 
Home  the  lovely  bride  ye  bring : 
Choicest  flowers  before  her  fling. 
Till  dizzying  streams  of  rich  perfume 
Fill  the  lofty  banquet-room  ! 
Strew  the  tender  citron  there, 
The  crushed  magnolia  proud  and  rare, 

Strew  about!  Strew  about! 
Orange  blossoms,  newly  dropp'd. 
Chains  from  high  acacia  cropp'd. 

Strew  about!  Strew  about ! 
Pale  musk-rose,  so  light  and  fine, 
Cloves,  and  stars  of  jessamine. 

Strew  about!     Strew  about ! 
Tops  of  myrtle,  wet  with  dew, 
Nipp'd  where  the  leaflets  sprout  anew. 
Fragrant  bay-leaves,  maidens,  strew  ! 

Strew  about !  Strew  about ! 


But  to  gain  a  just  appreciation  of  Miss  Mitford's  dramatic  ge- 
nius, we  must  go  to  her  Plays.  It  is  in  them  that  she  puts  forth 
all  her  strength,  and  it  will  doubtless  be  by  them  that  posterity 
will  mainly  judge  her.    Julian,  Rienzi,  Charles  the  First,  and 

EE* 


342  MARY   RUSSELL   MITFORD. 

Tlie  Vespers  of  Palermo,  are  the  names  of  her  Plays:  and  all  of 
them  display  more  or  less  the  dramatic  qualities  which  I  have 
heretofore  attributed  to  her.  Charles  the  First  and  Bienzi  are 
the  two  which  have  taken  the  strongest  hold  of  the  public  mind; 
and  I  see  no  reason  to  dispute  the  verdict.  Both  are  noble  plays 
—  full  of  poetry  and  characterisation.  I  take,  however,  one  of 
them  only  for  ray  illustrations.     It  shall  be  Bienzi. 

There  could  not  well  be  a  more  dramatic  story  than  that  of 
Rienzi.  The  dazzling  and  strange  career  of  "  The  Last  of  the 
Tribunes"  presents  more  than  most  histories  those  strong  and 
startling  points  of  interest  which  contribute  so  materially  to  dra- 
matic success.  The  time,  the  place,  the  men,  the  events,  all 
attract  and  fasten  the  attention.  The  scene  is  Rome  :  the  sub- 
ject Liberty:  the  passions  addressed  are  amongst  the  intcnsest 
that  belong  to  human  nature.  All  these  concurrent  circumstances 
no  doubt  contributed  materially  to  Miss  Mitford's  success  :  but 
still  there  seems  to  me  no  question  that  the  story  owes  more  to 
her  than  she  to  the  story.  Some  of  the  chief  dramatic  faculties 
are  displayed  by  the  fair  author  of  this  work  in  a  remarkable 
degree.  There  is  great  constructiveness  in  it :  the  piece  is  extremely 
well  put  together:  the  occurrences  happen  naturally  and  truthfully. 
The  main  points  are  most  judiciously  kept  in  view  throughout, 
and  the  minor  ones  duly  subordinated.  There  is  a  consistency, 
too,  a  coherency  in  the  Play,  which  is  essentially  dramatic. 
There  is  no  flying  off  at  a  tangent ;  no  forgetting  the  great  object 
in  view,  even  for  a  moment.  The  characters  are  brought  upon 
the  scene  easily  and  naturally  :  and  they  speak  not  at  all  like 
automata,  but  like  men  and  women  of  actual  flesh  and  blood.  The 
passions  displayed  in  the  Tragedy  are,  moreover,  most  correctly 
and  affectingly  delineated :  there  is  not  a  syllable  of  false  feeling 
or  unreal  sentiment  in  the  whole  composition.  Besides  this,  there 
is  an  amazing  range  of  sympathy  shown  by  the  writer.  The 
proud,  ambitious,  fiery  Rienzi,  the  gentle  and  innocent  Claudia, 
the  brave  but  indecisive  and  haughty  Angelo,  the  revengeful 
Lady  Colonna,  and  the  fierce  Ursini,  are  all  so  powerfully  and 
sympathetically  portrayed,  that  the  mind  of  the  author  must  have 
inhabited  for  a  time  the  soul  of  each,  and  must  have  really  felt  as 
they  are  made  to  feel.     The  mere  composition,  too,  is  eminently 


MARY   RUSSELL   MITFORD.  343 


dramatic  in  its  character.     It  is  terse,  vigorous,  and  suggestive. 
The  writer  never  forgets  that  she  is  depicting,  not  describing. 

Here  is  the  portrait  of  Rienzi :  there  is  absolute,  moving,  speak- 
ing life  in  it.     Lady  Colonna  calls  him 

A.  sad,  wise  man,  of  daring  eye  and  free 
Yet  mystic  speech.     While  others  laugh'd,  I  still 
Have  shudder'd,  for  his  darkling  words  oft  fell 
Like  oracles,  answering  with  dim  response 
To  my  unspoken  thoughts,  so  that  my  spirit. 
Albeit  unus'd  to  womanish  fear,  hath  quail'd 
To  hear  his  voice's  deep  vibration.     Watch  him ! 
Be  sure  he  is  ambitious.     Watch  him,  lords  ! 

To  complete  the  picture,  here  are   touches  by  his  daughter, 
Claudia. 

Alas  !  I  've  learned  to  fear  him  :  — he  is  chang'd. 

Grievously  chang'd :  still  good  and  kind,  but  full 

Of  fond  relentings  —  cross'd  by  sudden  gusts 

Of  wild  and  stormy  passion.     Then  he  's  so  silent :  — 

He  once  was  eloquent.     Now  he  sits  mute, 

His  serious  eyes  bent  on  the  ground:  —  each  sense 

Turn'd  inward. 

A  dangerous  man,  this,  one  would  say,  in  a  wicked  state!  — 
especially  when  he  begins  to  talk  about 

■■ "the  will  of  man,  the  hallow'd  names 


Of  Freedom  and  of  Country." 

But  let  us  listen  to  him.     He  is  speaking  to  the  Romans  of 
their  wrongs  :  —  incited  by  wrongs  of  his  own. 

Friends, 
I  come  not  here  to  talk.     Ye  know  too  well 
The  story  of  our  thraldom.     We  are  slaves  ! 


344  MARY  RUSSELL    MITFORD. 

The  briglit  sun  rises  to  liis  course,  and  lights 

A  race  of  slaves  !  —  He  sets,  and  his  last  beam 

Falls  on  a  slave.     Not  such  as  swept  along 

By  the  full  tide  of  power  the  conqueror  leads 

To  crimson  glory  and  undying  fame  — 

But  base  ignoble  slaves,  slaves  to  a  horde 

Of  petty  despots,  feudal  tyrants  :  —  lords 

Rich  in  some  dozen  paltry  villages, 

Strong  in  some  hundred  spearmen,  only  great 

In  that  strange  spell,  a  name.     Each  hour  dark  fraud 

Or  open  rapine,  or  protected  murder, 

Cry  out  against  them.     But  this  very  day 

An  honest  man,  my  neighbour  —  there  he  stands  — 

Was  struck  —  struck  like  a  dog,  by  one  who  wore 

The  badge  of  Ursini,  because  forsooth, 

He  toss'd  not  high  his  ready  cap  in  air, 

Nor  lifted  up  his  voice  in  servile  shouts 

At  sight  of  that  great  ruffian.     Be  we  men, 

And  suffer  such  dishonour  ?     Men,  and  wash  not 

I'he  stain  away  in  blood  ?     Such  shames  are  common  : 

I  have  known  deeper  wrongs.     I  that  speak  to  ye. 

I  had  a  brother  once,  a  gracious  boy. 

Full  of  all  gentleness,  of  calmest  hope. 

Of  sweet  and  quiet  joy.     Oh  how  I  lov'd 

That  gracious  boy  !     Younger  by  fifteen  years, 

Brother  at  once  and  son  !     He  left  my  side ; 

A  summer-bloom  on  his  fair  cheeks,  a  smile 

Parting  his  innocent  lips.     In  one  short  hour 

The  pretty  harmless  boy  was  slain  !    I  saw^ 

His  corse,  his  mangled  corse  ;  and  when  I  cried 

For  vengeance  —  Rouse  ye,  Romans  !  rouse  ye,  slaves  ! 

Have  ye  brave  sons  ?     Look  in  the  next  fierce  brawl 

To  see  them  die.      Have  ye  fair  daughters  ?     Look 

Ye  to  see  them  live,  torn  from  your  arms ;  distained, 

Dishonor'd  ;  and  if  ye  dare  to  call  for  justice, 

Be  answer'd  with  —  the  lash  !      Yet  this  is  Rome, 

That  sat  on  her  seven  hills,  and  from  her  throne 

Of  beauty  rul'd  the  world  !     And  we  are  Romans! 


MARY   RUSSELL   MITFORD.  345 


Why  in  that  elder  day  to  be  a  Roman 
Was  greater  than  a  king  !     And  once  again  — 
Hear  me,  ye  walls  that  echoed  to  the  tread 
Of  either  Brutus!     Once  again,  I  swear. 
The  eternal  city  shall  be  free  !     Her  sons 
Shall  walk  with  princes  ! 


Very  consistent  is  the  bearing  of  Rienzi  M'hen  lifted  to  the 
height  of  power.  True  to  his  nature,  his  ambition  has  grown  in 
him,  and  is  become  selfish  and  infatuating.  Still  his  great  spirit 
remains  true  and  noble.  His  sway  must  be  just,  however  des- 
potic. Lordly  fraud  swings  on  the  same  gibbet  with  plebeian 
tlieft :  there  is  no  partial  hand  interposed  for  either.  Though 
the  head  of  the  Ursini  is  the  offender,  he  must  hang  with  the  rest 
of  the  criminals.  The  scene  wherein  Rienzi  refuses  mercy  to 
the  patrician  culprit  is  a  very  fine  and  characteristic  one. 


[The  Nobles  are  come  to  intercede  with  Rienzi  for  Ursini.     Colonna  begins.] 
COLONNA. 

Sir,  I  come 
A  suitor  to  thee.     Martin  iJrsmi  — 

RIENZI. 

When  last  his  name  was  on  thy  lips  —  Well,  Sir, 
Thy  suit,  thy  suit?     If  pardon,  take  at  once 
My  answer. —  No  ! 

ANGELO. 

Yet,  mercy  — 

RIENZI. 

Angelo, 
Waste  not  thy  pleadings  on  a  desperate  cause, 
And  a  resolved  spirit.     My  Lord  Colonna, 
This  is  a  needful  justice. 
44 


B46 

MARY 

RUSSELL 

MITFORD. 

COLONNA. 

Noble 

Tribune; 

It  is  a 

crime  which 

custom  — 

RIENZI. 

Aye, 

the  law 

Of  the 

strong  ag-ain 

St  the  weak 

—  you 

f  law, 

the  law 

Of  the 

sword  and  s 

pear.     But, 

gentles 

,  now 

ye  live 

Under 

the  good  estate. 

SAVELLI. 

He  is  noble ! 

RIENZI. 

Therefore 
A  thousand  times,  he  dies.  Ye  are  noble,  Sirs, 
And  need  a  warning. 

COLONNA. 

Sick,  almost  to  death. 

KltN/.!. 

Ye  have  less  cause  to  grieve. 

FRANGIPANI. 

New  wedded. 

RIENZI. 

Aye, 
Madonna  Laura  is  a  blooming  dame, 
And  will  become  her  weeds. 

CAFARELLO. 

Remember,  Tribune, 
He  hath  two  uncles,  cardinals.     Would'st  outrage 
The  sacred  College  ?  , 


MARY   RUSSELL   MITFORD.  347 


RIENZI. 

The  Lord  Cardinals, 
Meek,  pious,  lowly  men,  and  loving  virtue, 
Will  render  thanks  to  him  vs^ho  wipes  a  blot 
So  flagrant  from  their  name  ! 

COLONNA. 

An  Ursini, 
Head  of  the  Ursini ! 

JOHN    OF    URSINI. 

My  brother! 

RIENZ.l. 

And  dar'st  thou  talk  to  me  of  brothers  ?     Thou, 
Whose  groom —  Would'st  have  me  break  my  own  just  laws 
To  save  thy  brother  ?      Thine  !     Hast  thou  forgotten 
When  that  most  beautiful  and  blameless  boy, 
The  prettiest  piece  of  innocence  that  ever 
Rreath'd  in  this  sinful  world,  lay  at  thy  feet, 
Slain  by  thy  pamper'd  minion,  and  I  knelt 
Before  thee  for  redress, —  whilst  thou  —  Didst  never 
Hear  talk  of  retribution?     This  is  justice  — 
Pure  justice,  not  revenge  !  mark  well,  my  Lords, 
Pure  equal  justice.     Martin  Ursini 
Had  open  trial,  is  guilty,  is  condemn'd. 
And  he  shall  die  ! 

COLONNA. 

Yet  listen  to  us  — 

RIENZI. 

Lords, 
If  ye  could  range  before  me  all  the  peers, 
Prelates,  and  potentates  of  Christendom, 
The  holy  Pontiff  kneeling  at  my  knee, 
And  emperors  crouching  at  my  feet,  to  sue 
For  this  great  robber,  still  I  should  be  blind 


348  MARY  RUSSELL  MITFORD. 

As  Justice.     But  this  very  day  a  wife, 

One  infant  hanging  at  her  breast,  and  two, 

Scarce  bigger,  first-born  twins  of  misery, 

Clinging  to  the  poor  rags  that  scarcely  hid 

Her  squalid  form,  grasped  at  my  bridle-rein 

To  beg  her  husband's  life,  condemned  to  die 

For  some  vile  petty  theft,  some  paltry  scudi : 

And  whilst  the  fiery  war-horse  chaf'd  and  rear'd. 

Shaking  his  crest  and  plunging  to  get  free. 

There  'midst  the  dangerous  coil  unmov'd  she  stood. 

Pleading  in  broken  words,  and  piercing  shrieks, 

And  hoarse  low  shivering  sobs,  the  very  cry 

Of  Nature.     And  when  I  at  last  said  No, — 

For  I  said  No  to  her  —  she  flung  herself 

And  those  poor  innocent  babes  between  the  stones 

And  my  hot  Arab's  hoofs.     We  sav'd  them  all. 

Thank  Heaven  we  sav'd  them  all !     But  I  said  No 

To  that  sad  woman  midst  her  shrieks.     Ye  dare  not 

Ask  me  for  mercy  now  ! 

All  this  is  in  the  highest  degree  dramatic,  and  most  truly  fitted 
to  the  character  of  the  man  who  utters  it. 

In  his  zenith  of  triumph,  Rienzi  is  Reinzi  still.  The  ambitious, 
unquiet  spirit  can  find  no  rest,  even  M'hen  most  successful.  We 
see  that  now 

He  bears  him  like  a  prince,  save  that  he  lacks 
The  port  serene  of  majesty.     His  mood 
Is  fitful :  stately  now,  and  sad  ;  anon. 
Full  of  a  hurried  mirth  ;  courteous  awhile. 
And  mild  :  — then  bursting,  on  a  sudden,  forth 
Into  sharp  biting  taunts. 

But  the  intoxication  of  ambition  increases  in  him  ; 

"  his  new  power 


Mounts  to  his  brain  like  wine:  — " 


MARY   RUSSELL   MITFORD.  349 


He  becomes  reckless,  hated,  despised,  deserted  by  those  who 
raised  him  to  his  giddying  elevation.  Rebellion,  turmoil,  riot, 
meet  him  at  every  turn  ;  until  at  last  his  awakened  spirit  sees  the 
vanity  of  the  dream  in  M'hich  he  has  indulged. 

"For  this,"  (he  cries)  I  left 
The  assur'd  condition  of  my  lowliness, — 
The  laughing  days,  the  peaceful  nights,  the  joys, 
Of  my  small  quiet  home  ;  for  such  I  risk'd 
Thy  peace,  my  daughter !     O  had  I  laid 
All  earthly  passion,  pride,  and  pomp,  and  power, 
And  high  ambition  and  hot  lust  of  rule, 
Like  sacrificial  fruits  upon  the  altar 
Of  Liberty,  divinest  Liberty  !  — 
Then  —  but  the  dream  that  fiU'd  my  soul  was  vast 
As  his  whose  mad  ambition  thinn'd  the  ranks 
Of  the  seraphim,  and  peopled  hell  ! 

And  so  he  falls  —  like  a  star  from  the  sky  —  into  the  black- 
ness of  darkness.     Oh,  ambition  ! 

By  that  sin  fell  the  angels  —  how  shall  man,  then, 
The  image  of  his  Maker,  hope  to  profit  by  't? 

Thy  dream  is  a  sick  and  a  vain  one,  and  thy  waking  is  to  mis- 
ery and  the  tomb.  "  Madness  is  in  thee,  and  Death — thy  end 
is  Bedlam  and  the  Grave." 

FF 


MARY  HOWITT, 

The  poetess  alike  of  the  Fireside  and  of  the  Field,  and  perhaps  the 
most  popular  of  all  our  female  writers,  takes  a  rank  second  to 
none  among  the  fair  poets  of  our  country.  Not  less  harmonious 
and  graceful  than  Mrs.  Hemans,  she  is  infinitely  more  spirited, 
natural,  and  powerful ;  and  whilst  her  sympathies  are  possibly 
less  subtle  and  sentimental  than  those  of  the  lady  referred  to,  they 
are  much  more  strong,  more  extended,  and  more  human.  She 
feels  equally  for  creation,  but  more  for  humanity.  She  writes 
with  a  more  direct  and  earnest  purpose,  too,  than  Mrs.  Hemans 
does:  Mrs.  Hemans  delights,  Mrs.  HoAvitt  instructs  us.  In  a 
word,  I  find  in  Mrs.  Hemans  music ;  in  Mrs.  Howitt  musical 
speech. 

In  force  and  character  of  style,  and  in  bold  nervousness  of 
thought,  Mrs.  Howitt  may  challenge  comparison  with  most  wri- 
ters in  our  literature.  There  is  a  strength  approaching  to  mas- 
si\'eness  in  the  following  noble  Sonnets  on 

TYRE. 
I. 

In  thought  I  saw  the  palace  domes  of  Tyre : 

The  gorgeous  treasures  of  her  merchandize  ; 
All  her  proud  people  in  their  brave  attire. 

Thronging  her  streets  for  sport  or  sacrifice. 

I  saw  her  precious  stones  and  spiceries ; 
The  singing-girl,  with  flower-wreathed  instrument; 

And  slaves  whose  beauty  ask'd  a  monarch's  price : 
Forth  from  all  lands  all  nations  to  her  went, 
And  kings  to  her  on  embassy  were  sent. 

I  saw  with  gilded  prow  and  silken  sail, 


MARY   HO  WITT.  351 


Her  shiDs  that  of  the  sea  had  government. 

0  gallant  ships,  'gainst  you  what  might  prevail ! 
She  stood  upon  her  rock,  and  in  her  pride 

Of  strength  and  beauty,  waste  and  woe  defied. 

II. 

I  looked  again  —  I  saw  a  lonely  shore ; 

A  rock  amid  the  waters,  and  a  waste 
Of  trackless  sand  :  I  heard  the  bleak  sea's  roar, 

And  winds  that  rose  and  fell  with  gusty  haste. 

There  was  one  scathed  tiee,  by  storm  defaced, 
Round  which  the  sea-birds  wheeled  with  screaming  cry. 

Ere  long  came  on  a  traveller,  slowly  paced : 
Now  east,  then  west,  he  turn'd  with  curious  eye, 
Like  one  perplexed  with  an  uncertainty. 

Awhile  he  looked  upon  the  sea,  —  and  then 
Upon  a  book  as  if  it  might  supply 

The  thing  he  lack'd  :  —  he  read  and  gazed  again  — 
Yet  as  if  unbelief  so  on  him  wrought. 
He  might  not  deem  this  shore  the  shore  he  sought. 

III. 
Again  I  saw  him  come  ;  — 'twas  eventide  ; 

The  sun  shone  on  the  rock  amid  the  sea  ; 
The  winds  were  hush'd  :  —  the  quiet  billows  sighed 

With  a  low  swell :  —  the  birds  winged  silently 

Their  evening  flight  around  the  scathed  tree ; 
The  fisher  safely  put  into  the  bay 

And  push'd  his  boat  ashore  ;  then  gathered  he 
His  nets,  and  hastening  up  the  rocky  way, 
Spread  them  to  catch  the  sun's  warm  evening  ray. 

1  saw  that  stranger's  eye  gaze  on  the  scene  : 
And  this  was  Tyre,"  —  said  he  :  how  has  decay 

Within  her  palaces  a  despot  been. 
Ruin  and  silence  in  her  courts  have  met, 
And  on  the  city  rock  the  fisher  spreads  his  net. 


352  MARY   HOWITT. 


Not  content  with  showing  that  she  possesses  noble  powers, 
Mrs-  Ilowitt  exhibits  the  rare  ambition  of"  using  her  gifts  nobly  : 
and,  with  an  earnest  eloquence,  which  often  reaches  sublimity, 
she  proclaims  herself  the  poet  of  the  Young  and  the  Humble  and 
the  Poor.     Her  sympathies  with  all  classes  are  strong, 

"  all  tears 


Which  human  sorrow  sheds  are  dear  to  her;" 

but  with  these  classes  thej^  are  overpowering.  Childhood  has 
for  her  an  inexpressible  charm  :  a  reminiscence  of  childhood 
takes  precedence  of  everything  besides.  We  see  this  in  her 
lines  respecting  Smyrna. 

"Of  Smyrna  nought  I  know, 
Except  that  Homer  was  a  child 
In  Smyrna  long  ago :" 

indeed  the  sentiment  is  ever  uppermost  in  her  poetry  :  and  never 
is  it  more  graceful  and  beautiful  than  when  allied  to  her  delicate 
womanly  sympathy  for  the  poor.  Take  the  following,  for  in- 
stance :  — 

My  heart  o'erflowelh  to  mine  eyes. 

And  a  prayer  is  on  my  tongue. 
When  I  see  the  poor  man's  children. 

The  toiling,  though  the  young, 
Gathering  with  sunburnt  hands 

The  dusty  wayside  flowers  ! 
Alas  !  that  pastime  symbolleth 

Life's  after,  darker,  hours  ! 

And  how  eloquently  and  touchingly  she  pleads  for  the  children 
of  the  poor.  I  find  the  finest  possible  oratory  in  the  subjoined 
beautiful  extract  from  her  Lyrics  of  Life : — 


MARY   HOWITT.  35J 


THE    CHILDREN. 

Beautiful  the  children's  faces  ! 

Spite  of  all  that  mars  and  sears : 
To  my  inmost  heart  appealinuf  ; 
Calling  forth  love's  tenderest  feeling  ; 

Steeping  all  my  soul  with  tears. 

Eloquent  the  children's  faces  — 
Poverty's  lean  look,  which  saith, 

Save  us  !   save  us  !  woe  surrounds  us  ; 

Little  knowledge  sore  confounds  us  : 
Life  is  but  a  lingering  death  ! 

Give  us  light  amid  our  darkness  ; 

Let  us  know  the  good  from  ill ; 
Hate  us  not  for  all  our  blindness ; 
Love  us,  lead  us,  show  us  kindness  — 

You  can  make  us  what  you  will. 

We  are  willing;  we  are  ready  ; 

We  would  learn,  if  you  would  teach  ; 
We  have  hearts  that  yearn  towards  duty  ; 
We  have  minds  alive  to  beauty  ; 

Souls  that  any  heights  can  reach  ! 

Raise  us  by  your  Christian  knowledge: 
Consecrate  to  man  our  powers  ; 

Let  us  take  our  proper  station  ; 

We,  the  rising  generation. 

Let  us  stamp  the  age  as  ours  ! 

We  shall  be  what  you  will  make  us  :  — 
Make  us  wise,  and  make  us  good ! 

Make  us  strong  for  time  of  trial ; 

Teach  us  temperance,  self-denial, 
Patience,  kindness,  fortitude  ! 

45  FF* 


354 


MARY  HOWITT. 


Look  into  our  childish  faces  ; 

See  ye  not  our  willing  hearts  ? 
Only  love  us,  only  lead  us  ; 
Only  let  us  know  you  need  us, 

And  we  all  will  do  our  parts. 

We  are  thousands,  many  thousands  ! 

Every  day  our  ranks  increase  ; 
Let  us  march  beneath  your  banner, 
We,  the  legion  of  true  honour, 

Combating  for  love  and  peace  ! 

Train  us!   try  us  !  days  slide  onward, 

They  can  ne'er  be  ours  again  : 
Save  us,  save  !  from  our  undoing  ! 
Save  from  ignorance  and  ruin  ; 

Make  us  worthy  to  be  men  ! 

Send  us  to  our  weeping  mothers, 

Angel-stamped  in  heart  and  brow  ! 
We  may  be  our  father's  teachers  : 
We  may  be  the  mightiest  preachers, 

Li  the  day  that  dawneth  now  ! 

Such  the  children's  mute  appealing. 

All  my  inmost  soul  was  stirred ; 
And  my  heart  was  bowed  with  sadness. 
When  a  cry,  like  summer's  gladness, 

Said,  "  The  children's  prayer  is  heard  !" 

There  is  a  line  in  the  preface  to  Mrs,  Howitt's  Ballads,  which 
very  happily  describes  her:  the  line  that  speaks  of  "  love  for 
Jlowers,  and  Christ,  and  little  children  f  Beauty,  Humility,  and 
Dependence.  Her  sense  of  beauty  is  truly  exquisite.  It  is  not 
the  soft  semi-voluptuous,  undefined  sentiment  of  Mrs.  Hemans, 
nor  the  rich,  showy,  brilliant  conception  of  Miss  Landon  :  but  a 
clear,  honest,  happy,  grateful  appreciation  of  what  is  harmonious 
and  loveable  and  elevating.    There  is  nothing  dreamy  in  her  idea 


of  beauty.  It  is  a  real  existence  :  something  that  may  be  clasped 
to  the  heart,  and  felt,  and  transmitted.     She  says  — 

Make  beauty  a  familiar  guest. 

So  shalt  thou  elevate  thy  mind  ! 
And  let  their  glorious  names  be  bless'd, 

Who  leave  one  thought  of  grace  behind, 
Be  it  in  form  or  word  express'd, 

For  such  are  benefactors  of  mankind  ! 

Equally  fine  is  her  sympathy  with  lowliness.  Anything  that  is 
humble,  or  dependent,  or  patient,  or  uncomplaining,  or  enduring, 
has  a  charm  which  attracts  the  whole  intellect  and  heart  of  Mrs. 
Howitt  at  once.  And  such  sympathies  proclaim  her  to  be  the 
possessor  of  one  of  those  true,  earnest,  loving  souls  which  alone 
(humanly  speaking)  can  save  us  from  sinking  into  that  yawning 
gulf  of  pride  and  selfishness  which  now  threatens  to  devour  and 
close  over  all  that  is  noble  and  self-denying  in  the  heart  of  man. 
We  need  to  be  more  childlike:  and  to  be  this  we  want  writers 
who  see  with  the  true  eyes,  and  speak  with  the  fearless  souls  of 
children.  This  our  author  does.  With  one  single  exception 
(Jane  Taylor)  Mary  Howitt  has  written  more  charmingly  for 
children  and  of  children,  than  any  writer  of  poetry  in  our  language. 
And  whilst  in  all  respects  she  is  equal,  in  one  respect  she  is  far 
superior  to  the  exception  named :  the  information  she  conveys  is 
of  a  higher  and  more  solid  order.  In  her  volume  entitled  Birds 
and  Flowers,  there  is  a  large  amount  of  positive  instruction  :  and 
most  delightfully  it  is  conveyed  to  the  mind  of  the  youthful 
reader ;  not  merely  inculcating  facts,  but  inducting  sympathies  :  not 
merely  fastening  the  young  mind  on  intellectual  Knowledge,  but 
fixing  it  deeply  in  the  rock  of  moral  Truth.  Her  style  contains 
everything  that  can  attract  the  young  imagination  ;  fervour,  sim- 
plicity, harmony,  affectionateness,  and  pictorial  power.  Take 
the  following  lines  :  — 

BIRDS    IN    SUMMER. 

How  pleasant  the  life  of  a  bird  must  be, 
Flitting  about  in  each  leafy  tree  ; 


356  MARY  HOWITT. 


In  the  leafy  trees,  so  broad  and  tall, 

Like  a  green  and  beautiful  palace  hall ; 

With  its  airy  chambers,  light  and  boon, 

That  open  to  sun  and  stars  and  moon. 

That  open  unto  the  bright  blue  sky, 

And  the  frolicsome  winds  as  they  wander  by. 

They  have  left  their  nests  in  the  forest  bough, 
Those  homes  of  delight  they  need  not  now  ; 
And  the  young  and  the  old  they  wander  out. 
And  traverse  their  green  world  round  about : 
And  hark  !  at  the  top  of  this  leafy  hall, 
How  one  to  the  other  they  lovingly  call ; 
"  Come  up,  come  up !  "  they  seem  to  say, 
"  Where  the  topmost  twigs  in  the  breezes  sway  ! " 

"  Come  up,  come  up,  for  the  world  is  fair. 

Where  the  merry  leaves  dance  in  the  summer  air ! ' 

And  the  birds  below  give  back  the  cry, 

"  We  come,  we  come,  to  the  branches  high !  " 

How  pleasant  the  life  of  a  bird  must  be, 

Flitting  about  in  a  leafy  tree  ; 

And  away  through  the  air  what  joy  to  go. 

And  to  look  on  the  green  bright  earth  below. 

How  pleasant  the  life  of  a  bird  must  be, 

Skimming  about  on  the  breezy  sea ; 

Cresting  the  billows  like  silvery  foam. 

And  then  wheeling  away  to  its  clifl'-built  home  ! 

What  joy  it  must  be,  to  sail,  upborne 

By  a  strong  free  wing,  througli  the  rosy  morn, 

To  meet  the  young  sun  face  to  face. 

And  pierce  like  a  shaft  the  boundless  space ! 

How  pleasant  the  life  of  a  bird  must  be, 
Wherever  it  listeth,  there  to  flee  ; 
To  go  when  a  joyful  fancy  calls 
Dashing  adown  'mong  the  waterfalls  ; 


MARY  HO  WITT.  357 


Then  wheeling  about  Avith  its  mates  at  play, 
Above  and  below,  and  among  the  spray, 
Hither  and  hither,  with  screams  as  wild 
As  the  laughing  mirth  of  a  rosy  child  ! 

What  joy  it  must  be,  like  a  living  breeze, 
To  flutter  about  'mong  the  flowering  trees  ; 
Lightly  to  soar,  and  to  see  beneath 
The  wastes  of  the  blossoming  purple  heath, 
And  the  yellow  furze,  like  fields  of  gold, 
That  gladden  some  fairy  region  old  ! 
On  mountain  tops,  on  the  billowy  sea, 
On  the  leafy  stems  of  the  forest  tree. 
How  pleasant  the  life  of  a  bird  must  be  ! 

I   quote  next  a  little  Poem  full  of  sweet,  simple  tenderness, 
quite  characteristic  of  Mrs.  Howitt,  and  entided 

MOUNTAIN    CHILDREN. 

Dwellers  by  lake  and  hill ! 
Merry  companions  of  the  bird  and  bee  ! 

Go,  gladly  forth,  and  drink  of  joy  your  fill, 
With  unconstrained  step,  and  spirits  free  ! 

No  crowd  impedes  your  way. 
No  city  wall  impedes  your  further  bounds  : 

Where  the  wild  flock  can  wander,  ye  may  stray 
The  long  day  through,  'mid  summer  sights  and  sounds. 

The  sunshine  and  the  flowers, 
And  the  old  trees  that  cast  a  solemn  shade; 

The  pleasant  evening,  the  fresh  dewy  hours, 
And  the  green  hills  whereon  your  fathers  played ;  — 

The  grey  and  ancient  peaks 
Round  which  the  silent  clouds  hang  day  and  night ; 

And  the  low  voice  of  water  as  it  makes, 
Like  a  glad  creature,  murmurings  of  delight ;  — 


358  MARY  HOWITT. 


These  are  your  joys  !    Go  forth  — 
Give  your  hearts  up  unto  their  mighty  power ; 

For  in  his  spirit  God  has   clothed  the  earth, 
And  speaketh  solemnly  from  tree  and  flower. 

The  voice  of  hidden  rills 
Its  quiet  way  into  your  spirit  finds  ; 

And  awfully  the  everlasting  hills 
Address  you  in  their  many  toned  winds. 

Ye  sit  upon  the  earth 
Twining  its  flowers,  and  shouting  full  of  glee  ; 

And  a  pure  mighty  influence,  'mid  your  mirth, 
Moulds  your  unconscious  spirits  silently. 

Hence  is  it  that  the  lands 
Of  storm  and  mountain  have  the  noblest  sons; 

Whom  the  world  reverences.     The  patriot  bands 
Were  of  the  hills  like  you,  ye  little  ones ! 

Children  of  pleasant  song 
Are  taught  within  the  mountain  solitudes ; 

For  hoary  legends  to  your  wilds  belong. 
And  yours  are  haunts  where  inspiration  broods. 

Then  go  forth  —  earth  and  sky 
To  you  are  tributary ;  joys  are  spread, 

Profusely,  like  the  summer  flowers  that  lie 
In  the  green  path,  beneath  your  gamesome  tread' 

Beautifully  in  the  foregoing  verses  does  the  poet  sympathize 
with  Freedom  and  its  joys  : — but  she  has  a  heart  that  feels  for 
the  Captive,  too.     "Look  on  that  picture,  and  on  this T^ 

PAUPER    ORPHANS. 

They  never  knew  what 't  was  to  play, 
Without  control,  the  long  long  day, 


ir  iHi  [!•, 


MARY   HOWITT.  359 


In  wood  and  field  at  will ; 
They  knew  no  tree,  no  bird,  no  bud, 
They  got  no  strawberries  from  the  wood, 

No  wild  thyme  from  the  hill. 

They  play'd  not  on  a  mother's  flcfor; 
They  toil'd  amidst  the  hum  and  roar 

Of  bobbins  and  of  wheels  ;  — 
The  air  they  drew  was  not  the  mild 
Bounty  of  Nature,  but  defiled, — 

And  scanty  were  their  meals. 

Their  lives  can  know  no  passing  joy, 
Dwindled  and  dwarfed  are  girl  and  boy, 

And  even  in  childhood  old; 
"With  hollow  eye  and  anxious  air, 
As  if  a  heavy  graspinsj  care 

Their  spirits  did  infold. 

Their  limbs  are  swollen,  their  bodies  bent. 
And  worse,  no  noble  sentiment 

Their  darken'd  minds  pervade; 
Feeble  and  blemisii'd  by  disease, 
Nothing  their  marble  hearts  can  please, 

But  doings  that  degrade. 

Oh,  hapless  heirs  of  want  and  woe  ! 
What  hope  of  comfort  can  they  know  ? 

Them  man  and  law  condemn ; 
They  have  no  guide  to  lead  them  right, 
Darkness  they  have  not  known  from  light,- 

Heaven  be  a  friend  to  them  ! 


This  seems  to  me  a  noble  instance  of  the  strength  of  Mrs. 
Howitt's  moral  sympathies.  Very  kw  writers  equal  this  "finely 
touched"  spirit.     As  a  further  illustration  I  quote  her  poem  of 


360  MARY   HOWITT. 


A    CITY    STREET. 

I  love  the  fields,  the  woods,  tiie  streams, 

The  wild  flowers  fresh  and  sweet, 
And  yet  I  love,  no  less  than  these, 

The  crowded  city  street : 
For  haunts  of  men,  where'er  they  be, 
Awake  my  deepest  sympathy. 

I  see  within  the  city  street 

Life's  most  extreme  estates. 
The  gorgeous  domes  of  palaces  ; 

The  prison's  doleful  gates  ; 
The  hearths  by  household  virtues  blest, 
The  dens  that  are  the  serpent's  nest. 

I  see  the  rich  man,  proudly  fed, 

And  richly  clothed,  pass  by  ; 
I  see  the  shivering  homeless  wretch. 

With  hunger  in  his  eye  : 
For  life's  severest  contrasts  meet 

For  ever  in  the  city  street. 

Infinitely  varied  as  are  the  styles  in  which  Mrs.  Howitt  has 
written,  it  is  not  saying  too  much  to  afiirm  that  she  is  suc- 
cessful in  all.  Perhaps,  however,  her  "  Ballads  "  are  her 
master-pieces.  Nothing  can  exceed  the  simple,  plaintive  tender- 
ness, the  unaflTected,  overpowering  pathos  of  these  beautiful 
compositions.  Adopting  the  manner,  she  has  caught  the  spirit, 
of  our  old  Balladists :  adding,  moreover,  a  refinement  of  senti- 
ment which  few  of  our  ancient  writers  display.  As  a  very 
interesting  specimen  of  Mrs.  Howitt's  Ballad  style,  I  present  her 
poem  called 

THE    SALE    OF    THE    PET    LAMB. 

Oh  !  poverty  is  a  weary  thing,  't  is  full  of  grief  and  pain, 

It  boweth  down  the  heart  of  man,  and  dulls  his  cunning  brain  : 

It  maketh  even  the  little  child  with  heavy  sighs  complain ! 


MARY   HOWITT.  361 


The  children  of  the  rich  man  have  not  their  bread  to  win  ; 
They  hardly  know  how  labour  is  the  penalty  of  sin  ; 
Even  as  the  lilies  of  the  field,  they  neither  toil  nor  spin. 

And  year  by  year,  as  life  wears  on,  no  wants  have  they  to  bear ; 

In  all  the  luxury  of  the  earth  they  have  abundant  share  : 

They  walk  among  life's  pleasant  ways,  where  all  is  rich  and  fair. 

The  children  of  the  poor  man, —  though  they  be  young  each  one, 
Must  rise  betime  each  morning,  before  the  rising  sun : 
And  scarcely  when  the  sun  is  set  their  daily  task  is  done. 

Few  things  have  they  to  call  their  own,  to  fill  their  hearts  with 

pride. 
The  sunshine  and  the  summer  flowers  upon  the  highway  side, 
And  their  own  free  companionship  on  heathy  commons  wide. 

Hunger,  and  cold,  and  weariness,  these  are  a  frightful  three. 
But  another  curse  there  is  beside,  that  darkens  poverty  ; 
It  may  not  have  one  thing  to  love,  how  small  soe'er  it  be  ! 

A  thousand  flocks  were  on  the  hills,  a  thousand  flocks  and  more, 
Feeding  in  sunshine  pleasantly  ;  they  were  the  rich  man's  store  : 
There  was  the  while  one  little  lamb  beside  the  cottage  door: 

A  little  lamb  that  rested  with  the  children  'neath  the  tree, 

That  ate,  meek  creature,  from  their  hands,  and  nestled  to  their 

knee  ; 
That  had  a  place  within  their  hearts,  as  one  of  the  family. 

But  want,  even  as  an  armed  man,  came  down  upon  their  shed, 
The  father  laboured  all  day  long,  that  his  children  might  be  fed. 
And,  one  by  one,  their  household  things  were  sold  to  buy  them 
bread. 

That  father,  with  a  downcast  eye,  upon  his  threshold  stood ; 
Gaunt  poverty  each  pleasant  thought  had  in  his  heart  subdued  : 
"  What  is  the  creature's  life  to  us  ?"  said  he  — 't  will  buy  us  food  ! 
46  GO 


"  Ay,  tboucrh  the  children  weep  all  day,  and  with  down-drooping 

liead 
Each  does  his  small  task  mournfully,  the  hungry  must  be  fed  : 
And  that  which  has  a  price  to  bring  must  go  to  buy  us  bread." 

It  went.     Oh  !  parting  has  a  pang  the  hardest  heart  to  wring: 
But  the  tender  soul  of  a  little  child  with  fervent  love  doth  cling, 
With  love  that  hath  no  feignings  false,  unto  each  gentle  thing ! 

Therefore  most  sorrowful  it  was  those  children  small  to  see. 
Most  sorrowful  to  hear  them  plead  for  the  lamb  so  piteously  ; 
"  Oh  !  mother  dear  !  it  loveth  us  ;  and  what  beside  have  we  ?" 

•'Let's  take  him  off  to  the  broad  green  hill!"  in  his  impotent 

despair 
Said   one  strong  boy:  "let's  take  him  off;  —  the  hills  are  wide 

and  fair, 
I  know  a  little  hiding  place,  and  we  will  keep  him  there  !  " 

Oh  vain!  they  took  the  little   lamb,  and  straightway  tied  him 

down. 
With  a  strong  cord  they  tied  him  fast ;  and  o'er  the  common 

brown 
.And  o'er  the  hot  and  flinty  roads,  they  took  him  to  the  town. 

The  litde  children  through  that  day  and  throughout  all  the   mor- 
row, 
From  everything  about  the  house  a  mournful  thought  did  borrow ; 
The  very  bread  they  had  to  eat  was  food  unto  their  sorrow. 

•  O  poverty  is  a  weary  thing,  't  is  full  of  grief  and  pain. 
It  keepeth  down  the  soul  of  man  as  with  an  iron  chain  ; 
;It  maketh  even  the  little  child  with  heavy  sighs  complain. 

Like  the  great  majority  of  her  Sister-Poets,  Mrs,  Howitt  is 
truly  devotional.  A  fine  spirit  of  piety  breathes  through  all  her 
works.     As  a  specimen  I  take  her  well-known  lines  called 


MARY   HOWITT.  363 


THOUGHTS    OF    HEAVEN. 

Thoughts  of  heaven  !  they  come  when  low 

The  summer  even  breeze  doth  faintly  blow ; 

AVhen  the  mighty  sea  shines  clear,  unstirr'd 

By  the  wavering  tide,  or  the  dipping  bird  : 

They  come  in  the  rush  of  the  surging  storm, 

When  the  blackening  waves  rear  their  giant  form,— 

When  o'er  the  dark  rocks  curl  the  breakers  white, 

And  the  terrible  lightnings  rend  the  night, — 

When  the  noble  ship  hath  vainly  striven 

With  the  tempest's  might,  come  thoughts  of  heaven. 

They  come  where  man  doth  not  intrude, 

In  the  untrack'd  forest's  solitude  ; 

In  the  stillness  of  the  gray  rock's  height, 

Where  the  lonely  eagle  takes  his  flight ; 

On  peaks  where  lie  the  eternal  snows  ; 

In  the  sunbright  isle,  'mid  its  rich  repose. 

In  the  healthy  glen,  by  the  dark  clear  lake. 

When  the  fair  swan  sails  from  her  silent  brake ; 

When  Nature  reigns  in  her  deepest  rest, 

Pure  thoughts  of  heaven  come  unrepress'd. 

They  come  as  we  gaze  on  the  midnight  sky 
When  the  star-gemm'd  vault  looks  dark  and  high, 
And  the  soul,  on  the  wings  of  thought  sublime, 
Soars  from  the  dim  world,  and  the  bounds  of  time. 
Till  the  mental  eye  becomes  unseal'd. 
And  the  mystery  of  being  in  Hght  revealed. 
They  rise  in  the  Gothic  chapel  dim, 
When  slowly  comes  forth  the  holy  hymn. 
And  the  organ's  rich  tones  swell  full  and  high. 
Till  the  roof  peals  back  the  melody. 

Thoughts  of  heaven!  from  his  joy  beguiled. 
They  come  to  the  bright-eyed,  sinless  child ; 


364  MARY   HOWITT. 


To  man  of  age  in  his  dim  decay, 

Bringing  hope  that  his  youth  had  home  away  ; 

To  the  woe-smit  soul  in  its  dark  distress, 

As  flowers  spring  up  in  the  wilderness  : 

And  in  silent  chambers  of  the  dead, 

When  the  mourner  goes  with  soundless  tread  ; 

For,  as  the  day-beams  freely  fall. 

Pure  thoughts  of  heaven  are  sent  to  all. 

Highly  religious,  however,  as  Mrs.  Howitt  is,  she  is  not  in  the 
slightest  degree  bigoted.  She  can  appreciate  piety  in  any  of  its 
shapes. 

Creeds  matter  not  to  her.     She  asks  no  more 
Than  that  the  one  Great  Father,  men  adore  : 
For  loving  Him,  with  better  right  we  call 
On  God  as  Father,  who  hath  loved  us  all. 

Her  Faith  is  the  earnest  trust  of  a  true  and  childlike  soul,  un- 
fettered by  wordy  dogmas ;  her  Hope  is  the  cheerful  expectation 
of  a  spirit  confident  of  a  coming  immortality,  to  be  shared  with 
people  of  every  clime  and  kindred  and  nation  and  tongue :  her 
Charity  is  of  the  kind  that  "  envieth  not,  and  thinketh  no  evil," 
— that  can  extend  the  hand  of  fellowship  to  all  who  bear  the  hu- 
man form,  and  find  in  the  poorest  of  the  species  a  brother  and  a 
friend. 

In  the  subjoined  lines  the  spirit  of  true  religion  is  very  sweetly 
apparent ;  and  combined  with  it  there  is  a  touch  of  sound  philo- 
sophy such  as  we  should  do  well  to  take  closely  to  our  hearts. 
The  Mammonism  of  the  age  is  powerfully  described  ;  and  the 
purifying  influences  of  religion  become  all  the  more  evident  from 
the  contrast.     The  passage  is  quite  a  characteristic  one. 

ENGLISH    CHURCHES. 

How  beautiful  they  stand, 
Those  ancient  altars  of  our  native  land  ! 
Amid  the  pasture  fields  and  dark  green  woods, 
Amid  the  mountain's  cloudy  solitudes  ; 


MARY  HOWITT.  365 


By  rivers  broad  that  rush  into  the  sea ; 

By  little  brooks  that  with  a  lapsing  sound, 
Like  playful  children,  run  by  copse  and  lea : 

Each  in  its  little  plot  of  holy  ground. 

How  beautiful  they  stand. 
Those  old  grey  churches  of  our  native  land  ! 

Our  lives  are  all  turmoil ; 
Our  souls  are  in  a  weary  strife  and  toil, 
Grasping  and  straining  —  tasking  nerve  and  brain, 
—  Both  day  and  night  for  gain  ! 
We  have  grown  worldly :  have  made  gold  our  god: 

Have  turned  our  hearts  away  from  lowly  things  : 
We  seek  not  now  the  wild  flower  on  the  sod ; 

We  see  not  snowy-folded  angels'  wings 

Amid  the  summer-skies ; 
For  visions  come  not  to  polluted  eyes ! 

Yet,  blessed  quiet  fanes  ! 
Still  piety,  still  poetry  remains. 
And  shall  remain,  whilst  ever  on  the  air 
One  chapel-bell  calls  high  and  low  to  prayer, — 
Whilst  ever  green  and  sunny  churchyards  keep 

The  dust  of  one  beloved,  and  tears  are  shed. 
From  founts  which  in  the  human  heart  lie  deep  ! 

Something  in  these  aspiring  days  we  need 

To  keep  our  spirits  lowly, 
To  set  within  our  hearts  sweet  thoughts  and  holy  ! 

And  't  is  for  this  they  stand, 
The  old  grey  churches  of  our  native  land ! 
And  even  in  the  gold-corrupted  mart, 
In  the  great  city's  heart. 
They  stand ;  and  chanting  dim  and  organ  sound 

And  stated  services  of  prayer  and  praise, 
Like  to  the  righteous  ten  who  were  not  found 

For  the  polluted  city,  shall  upraise, 

Meek  faith  and  love  sincere, — 
Better  in  time  of  need  than  shield  and  spear  ! 

GG* 


366  MARY  HOWITT. 


Occasionally  we  find  in  Mrs.  Howitt's  v/ritings  a  more  lofty 
and  ambitious  aim  than  that  simple  one  which  generally  charac- 
terises them  :  or  perhaps  I  should  rather  say  that  she  seeks  to 
effect  the  same  object  which  she  has  commonly  in  view,  by  lof- 
tier means.  In  her  poem  called  The  Seven  Temptations,  one 
of  the  finest  works  ever  pritten  by  a  woman,  with  touches,  now 
like  Byron's,  now  like  Goethe's,  now  almost  Miltonic,  we  find 
her  analysing  the  nature  and  tracing  the  operations  of  the  princi- 
ple of  Evil  :  and  although  it  is  not  to  be  expected  that  she  should 
make  this  awful  matter  plain,  still  she  often  discourses  most  elo- 
quently and  instructively  upon  it.  The  following  lines  are,  I 
think,  very  nobly  conceived  :  they  mount,  indeed,  into  true  sub- 
limity. 

Thou,  that  createdst  with  a  word  each  star  ; 

Who  out  of  nothingness  brought  systems  forth  ; 
Yet  didst  exalt  beyond  creation,  far, 

The  human  sonl,  immortal  at  its  birth;  — 
Thou  gavest  liglit  and  darkness  ;  life  and  death; 
Thou  gavest  good  and  ill. 
Twin  powers,  to  be 
Companions  of  its  mortal  devious  path ; 
Yet  left  the  human  will 
Unlimited  and  free  ! 
We  know  how  pain  and  woe. 

Sorrow  and  sin  make  up  the  sum  of  life ! 

How  good  and  evil  are  at  ceaseless  strife. 
And  how  the  soul  doth  err  in  choice  we  know ! 
Yet  not  for  this  droop  we,  nor  are  afraid ; 

We  know  thy  goodness,  we  behold  thy  might ; 
We  know  thy  truth  can  never  be  gainsaid, 

And  what  thou  dost  is  right ! 
We  glorify  thy  name  that  thus  it  is ; 
We  glorify  thy  name  for  more  than  this  ! 
We  know  that  out  of  darkness  shines  thy  light ; 

That  out  of  evil  cometh  forth  thy  good  ; 
That  none  shall  circumvent  the  Infinite, 
Nor  can  Omnipotence  be  e'er  subdued  ! 


We  know  that  doubt  shall  cease,  and  feeble  terror ; 

That  thou  wilt  wipe  all  tears  from  every  eye ; 
That  Thine  Almighty  Truth  shall  vanquish  Error, 
And  Death  shall  die  ! 
We  know  that  this  shall  be, 
Therefore  we  trust  in  Thee, 
And  pour  in  balm  to  human  hearts  that  bleed ; 
And  bind  the  broken  and  the  bruised  reed  ; 
And  say,  Rejoice,  Rejoice  ! 

For  Truth  is  strong: 
Exalt  ye  every  voice 

In  one  triumphant  song  — 
For  Truth  is  God,  and  He  shall  make  you  free  ! 
Evd  is  but  of  Time  ;  —  Good,  of  Eternity  ! 

To  give  a  just  and  complete  idea  of  Mrs.  Howitt's  varied  and 
voluminous  writings  requires  for  more  space  than  the  limits  of 
this  work  will  afford  :  the  reader,  therefore,  who  desires  —  and 
who  will  not?  —  to  make  a  more  familiar  acquaintance  with  this 
gifted  lady's  muse,  must  turn  to  her  works  for  himself.  He  must 
go  to  her  book  of  Birds  and  Floivers,  and  follow  her  through 
wood  and  copse,  by  lake  and  stream, 

"And  think  of  angels'  voices 

When  the  birds'  songs  he  hears  :  " — 

and  he  must  turn  to  her  volume  of  Fireside  Verses,  and  read  of 
little  Marien  — 

"The  angel  of  the  poor," — 

and  of  Mabel  on  Midsummer-day:  and  of  The  Boy  of  the 
Southern  Isle,  in  whom  he  will  find  a  spirit  akin  to  that  of 
Coleridge's  Ancient  Mariner.  And  above  all  he  must  acquaint 
himself  with  her  Book  of  Ballads;  mourn  with  the  desolate 
Magdalene  ;  hie  with  Mary  to  the  top  of  the  Caldon  Low  ;  search 
the  woods  for  little  Lilien  May  ;  and  listen  to  the  angel-words 
of  The  Boy   of  Heaven.     He  will  find  before  long  that  he  is  in 


368  MARY   HOWITT. 


company  with  one  of  the   most  richly  freighted  spirits  that  ever 
sailed  down  the  stream  of  Time. 

In  summing  up  my  imperfect  estimate  of  Mary  Howitt,  I  would 
say  that  no  Female  Poet  in  our  literature  surpasses  her,  and  that 
but  few  equal  her.  As  a  versifier,  as  a  moralist,  and  as  a  philo- 
sopher, she  may  safely  challenge  comparison  with  any  writer  of 
her  own  sex,  and  with  most  of  the  writers  of  the  other  sex : 
whilst  as  regards  grace,  pathos,  womanly  sentiment,  and  Christian 
sympathy,  she  has  scarcely  "  a  rival  near  her  throne."  I  believe 
that  her  writings  have  done  more  to  elevate  our  idea  of  woman's 
intellectual  character,  than  all  the  treatises  on  that  subject  in  our 
language  :  I  believe  further,  that  her  works  tend  most  powerfully 
to  ameliorate,  exalt,  and  purify  the  heart  of  the  world  ;  and  I  be- 
lieve, finally,  that  she  is  the  truest  representative  we  have  among 
our  Poets  of  that  fervent,  practical,  beautiful  Christianity  which 
was  prophesied  in  the  song  of  the  angels  at  Bethlehem,  —  peace 
ON  KARTH  AND  GOOD  WILL  AMONG  MEN.  Mrs.  Howitt  is  indeed 
a  writer  of  whom  England  may  be,  and  will  be  eternally  proud. 


THE    LOST    ONE. 

We  meet  around  the  board,  thou  art  not  there  ; 

Over  our  household  joys  hath  passed  a  gloom; 
Beside  the  fire  we  see  thy  empty  chair, 

And  miss  thy  sweet  voice  in  the  silent  room. 
What  hopeless  longings  after  thee  arise  ! 
Even  for  the  touch  of  thy  small  hand  I  pine  ; 

And  for  the  sound  of  thy  dear  little  feet. 
Alas  !  tears  dim  mine  eyes, 
Meeting  in  every  place  some  joy  of  thine, 

Or  when  fair  children  pass  me  in  the  street. 

Beauty  was  on  thy  cheek ;  and  thou  didst  seem 
A  privileged  being,  chartered  from  decay  ; 


And  thy  free  spirit,  like  a  mountain  stream 
That  hath  no  ebb,  kept  on  its  cheerful  way. 

Thy  laugh  was  like  the  inspiring  breath  of  spring, 
That  thrills  the  heart,  and  cannot  be  unfelt. 

The  sun,  the  moon,  the  green  leaves  and  the  flowers, 
And  every  living  thing, 
Were  a  strong  joy  to  thee  ;  thy  spirit  dwelt 
Gladly  in  life,  rejoicing  in  its  powers. 

Oh  !  what  had  death  to  do  with  one  like  thee, 

Thou  young  and  loving  one  ;  whose  soul  did  cling, 
Even  as  the  ivy  clings  unto  the  tree. 

To  those  that  loved  thee  ?  Thou,  whose  tears  would  spring 
Dreading  a  short  day's  absence,  didst  thou  go 
Alone  into  the  future  world  unseen, 

Solving  each  awful  untried  mystery. 
The  dread  unknown  to  know  ; 
To  be  where  mortal  traveller  hath  not  been. 

Whence  welcome  tidings  cannot  come  from  thee? 

My  happy  boy  !  and  murmur  I  that  death 

Over  thy  young  and  buoyant  frame  had  power? 
In  yon  bright  land  love  never  perisheth, 

Hope  may  not  mock,  nor  grief  the  heart  devour. 
The  Beautiful  are  round  thee ;  thou  dost  keep 
Within  the  Eternal  Presence ;  and  no  more 

Mayst  death,  or  pain,  or  separation  dread: 
Thy  bright  eyes  cannot  weep. 
Nor  they  with  whom  thou  art  thy  loss  deplore  ; 

For  ye  are  of  the  living,  not  the  dead. 

Thou  dweller  with  the  unseen,  who  hast  explored 

The  immense  unknown  ;  thou  to  whom  death  and  heaven 
Are  mysteries  no  more  ;   whose  soul  is  stored 

With  knowledge  for  which  man  hath  vainly  striven ; 
Beloved  child,  oh  !  when  shall  I  lie  down 
With  thee  beneath  fair  trees  that  cannot  fade  ? 

When  from  the  immortal  rivers  quench  my  thirst  ? 
47 


370  MARY  HOWITT. 


Life's  journey  speedeth  on  ; 
Yet  for  a  little  while  we  walk  in  shade  ; 

Anon,  by  death  the  cloud  is  all  dispersed ; 
Then  o'er  the  hills  of  heaven  the  eternal  day  doth  burst. 


TIBBIE    INGLIS,   OR    THE    SCHOLAR  S    WOOING. 

Bonny  Tibbie  Inglis  ! 

Through  sun  and  stormy  weather, 
She  kept  upon  the  broomy  hills 

Her  father's  flock  together. 

Sixteen  summers  had  she  seen, 

A  rose-bud  just  unsealing, 
Without  sorrow,  without  fear. 

In  her  mountain  shieling. 

She  was  made  for  happy  thoughts, 
For  playful  wit  and  laughter. 

Singing  on  the  hills  alone. 
With  echo  singing  after. 

She  had  hair  as  deeply  black 

As  the  cloud  of  thunder; 
She  had  brows  so  beautiful, 

And  dark  eyes  flashing  under. 

Bright  and  witty  shepherd  girl  ! 

Beside  a  mountain  water 
I  found  her,  wliom  a  king  himself 

Would  proudly  call  his  daughter. 

She  was  sitting  'mong  the  crags, 
Wild  and  mossed  and  hoary, 

Reading  in  an  ancient  book 
Some  old  martyr  story. 


Tears  were  starting  to  her  eyes, 
Solemn  thought  was  o'er  her; 

When  she  saw  in  that  lone  place 
A  stranger  stand  before  her. 

Crimson  was  her  sunny  cheek, 
And  her  lips  seemed  moving 

With  the  beatings  of  her  heart  — 
How  could  I  help  loving ! 

On  a  crag  I  sat  me  down, 
Upon  the  mountain  hoary, 

And  made  her  read  again  to  me 
That  old  pathetic  story. 

Then  she  sang  me  mountain  songs., 

Till  the  air  was  ringing 
With  her  clear  and  warbling  voice 

Like  a  sky-lark  singing. 

And  when  eve  came  on  at  length. 
Among  the  blooming  heather, 

We  herded  on  the  mountain  side 
Her  father's  flock  together. 

And  near  unto  her  father's  house, 
I  said  "  Good  night"  with  sorrow. 

And  inly  wished  that  I  might  say, 
"  We  '11  meet  again  to-morrow  !" 

I  watched  her  tripping  to  her  home  ; 

I  saw  her  meet  her  mother  ; 
"Among  a  thousand  maids,"  I  cried 
"  There  is  not  such  another  I" 

I  wandered  to  my  scholar's  home. 
It  lonesome  looked  and  dreary  ; 

I  took  my  books  but  could  not  read, 
Methought  that  I  was  weary 


372  MARY   HOWITT. 


I  laid  me  down  upon  my  bed, 
My  heart  with  sadness  laden  ; 

I  dreamed  but  of  the  mountain  wild, 
And  of  the  mountain  maiden. 

I  saw  her  of  her  ancient  book 

The  pages  turning  slowly; 
I  saw  her  lovely  crimson  cheek, 

And  dark  eye  drooping  lowly. 

The  dream  was,  like  the  day's  delight, 
A  life  of  pain's  o'erpayment. 

I  rose,  and  with  unwonted  care 
Put  on  my  sabbath-raiment. 

To  none  I  told  my  secret  thoughts. 

Not  even  to  my  mother, 
Nor  to  the  friend  who,  from  my  youth. 

Was  dear  as  is  a  brother. 

I  got  me  to  the  hills  again ; 

The  little  flock  was  feeding, 
And  there  young  Tibbie  Inglis  sate, 

But  not  the  old  book  reading. 

She  sate,  as  if  absorbing  thought 
With  heavy  spells  had  bound  her. 

As  silent  as  the  mossy  crags' 
Upon  the  mountains  round  her. 

I  thought  not  of  my  sabbath  dress  ; 

I  thought  not  of  my  learning  ; 
I  thought  but  of  the  gentle  maid, 

Who,  I  believed,  was  mourning. 

Bonny  Tibby  Inglis  ! 

How  her  beauty  brightened. 
Looking  at  me,  half-abashed. 

With  eyes  that  flashed  and  lightened  ! 


MARY  HOWITT.  >    373 


There  was  no  sorrow  then  I  saw, 
There  was  no  thought  of  sadness. 

Oh  life  !  what  after-joy  hast  thou 
Like  love's  first  certain  gladness  ! 

I  sate  me  down  among  the  crags, 

Upon  the  mountain  hoary  ; 
But  read  not  then  the  ancient  book,— 

Love  was  our  pleasant  story. 

And  then  she  sang  me  songs  again. 
Old  songs  of  love  and  sorrow. 

For  our  sufficient  happiness 

Great  charm  from  woe  could  borrow. 

And  many  hours  we  talked  in  joy, 
Yet  too  much  blessed  for  laughter : 

I  was  a  happy  man  that  day. 
And  happy  ever  after  ! 

HH 


374 .  MRS.  SOUTHEY. 


MRS.  SOUTHEY, 

Formerly  Miss  Caroline  Bowles,  is  the  daughter  of  the  late 
Reverend  William  Lisle  Bowles,  and  the  widow  of  the  late  Robert 
Southey,  the  poet.  She  has  written  several  poetical  works,  all 
of  which  have  been  received  with  the  favour  due  to  the  author's 
genius. 

It  would  be  difficult,  I  think,  to  find  among  our  Female  Poets 
one  who  in  vigour  of  mind,  intensity  of  feeling,  and  gracefulness 
of  expression,  excels  Mrs.  Southey.  Her  poems  have  a  simpli- 
city, a  naturalness,  which  is  as  pleasing  as  it  is  rare.  Her  verses 
are  the  very  perfection  of  direct  and  inartificial  thought.  In  terse 
force  of  style  I  do  not  know  her  superior:  whilst  at  the  same 
time  she  has  the  quickness  of  vision  and  the  sensitiveness  of 
sympathy  which  characterise  her  sex.  It  is  impossible  not  to 
notice  the  freeness  of  the  touches  which  compose  the  following 
fine  picture  of 


THE    PAUPER  S    DEATHBED. 

Tread  softly  !  —  bow  the  head  - 
In  reverent  silence  bow  !  — 
No  passing  bell  doth  toll, 
Yet  an  immortal  soul 
Is  passing  now. 

Stranger !  however  great, 

With  lowly  reverence  bow  : 
There's  one  in  that  poor  shed- 
One  by  that  paltry  bed. 
Greater  than  thou. 


Beneath  that  beggar's  roof, 

Lo  !  Death  doth  keep  his  state  ; 

Enter !  —  no  crowds  attend  — 

Enter!  —  no  guards  defend 
This  palace-gate ! 

That  pavement  damp  and  cold, 

No  smiling  courtiers  tread  ; 
One  silent  woman  stands 
Lifting  with  meagre  hands 

A  dying  head. 

No  mingling  voices  sound  — 

An  infant  wail  alone ; 
A  sob  suppress'd  —  again 
That  short  deep  gasp,  and  then 

The  parting  groan. 

Oh,  change  !  oh,  wondrous  change  — 

Burst  are  the  prison  bars  — 
This  moment  there,  so  low, 
So  agonized,  and  now 

Beyond  the  stars  ! 

Oh,  change  —  stupendous  change  ! 

There  lies  the  soulless  clod  : 
The  sun  eternal  breaks  — 
The  new  immortal  wakes  — 

Wakes  with  his  God. 

For  depth  and  irresistible  force  of  natural  pathos  I  think  I  may- 
challenge  our  literature  to  produce  a  more  perfect  specimen  than 
Mrs.  Southey's  poem  called 

THE    DYING    MOTHER   TO    HER   INFANT. 

My  baby  !  my  poor  little  one  !  thou  'rt  come  a  winter  flower, 
A  pale  and  tender  blossom,  in  a  cold  unkindly  hour ; 


376  MRS.  SOUTHEY. 


Thou  comest  like  the  snow-drop,  and  like  that  pretty  thing, 
The  power  that  calls  my  bud  to  life  will  shield  its  blossoming. 

The  snow-drop  hath  no  guardian  leaves,  to  fold  her  safe  and  warm 
Yet  well  she  bides  the  bitter  blast,  and  weathers  out  the  storm  ; 
I  shall  not  long  enfold  thee  thus  —  not  long,  but  well  I  know 
The  everlasting  arms,  my  Babe  !  will  never  let  thee  go. 

The  snow-drop  —  how  it  haunts  me  still!  hangs  down  her  fair 

young  head; 
So  thine  may  droop  in  days  to  come,  when  I  have  long  been  dead. 
And  yet  the  little  snow-drop  's  safe  —  from  her  instruction  seek ; 
For  who  would  crush  the  motherless,  the  lowly,  and  the  meek  ? 

Yet  motherless  thou  'It  not  be  long  —  not  long  in  name,  my  life  ! 
Thy  father  soon  will  bring  him  home  another,  fairer,  wife  : 
Be  loving,  dutiful  to  her  —  find  favour  in  her  sight  — 
—  But  never,  O  my  child,  forget  thine  own  poor  mother  quite. 

But  who  will  speak  to  thee  of  her  ?  —  The  gravestone  at  her  head 
Will  only  tell  the  name  and  age  and  lineage  of  the  dead  : 
But  not  a  word  of  all  the  love  —  the  mighty  love  for  thee 
That  crowded  years  into  an  hour  of  brief  maternity. 

They  '11  put  my  picture  from  its  place  to  fix  another's  there, 
That  picture  that  was  thought  so  like,  and  then  so  passing  fair  ! 
Some  chamber  in  thy  father's  house  they  '11  let  thee  call  thine  own  ; 
Oh !  take  it  there  to  look  upon,  when  thou  art  all  alone  — 

To  breathe  thine  early  griefs  unto,  if  such  assail  my  child ; 
To  turn  to  from  less  loving  looks,  from  faces  not  so  mild. 
Alas  !  unconscious  little  one,  thou  'It  never  know  that  best, 
That  holiest  home  of  all  the  earth,  a  living  mother's  breast. 

I  do  repent  me  now  too  late  of  each  impatient  thought, 
That  would  not  let  me  tarry  out  God's  leisure  as  I  ought: 
I  've  been  too  hasty,  peevish,  proud  :  I  long'd  to  go  away  ; 
And  now  I'd  fain  live  on  for  thee,  God  will  not  let  me  stay. 


MRS.    SOUTHEY.  377 


Oh  !  when  I  think  of  what  I  was,  and  what  I  might  have  been, 
A  bride  last  year  —  and  now  to  die  !  —  and  I  am  scarce  nineteen  ; 
And  just,  just  opening  in  my  heart  a  fount  of  love  so  new  ! 
So   deep!     Could  that  have  run  to   waste?     Could  that  have 
fail'd  me,  too  ? 

The  bliss  it  would  have  been  to  see  my  daughter  at  my  side  ! 
My  prime  of  life  scarce  overblown,  and  hers  in  all  its  pride  : 
To  deck  her  with  my  finest  things,  with  all  I've  rich  and  rare: 
To  hear  it  said,  "  How  beautiful !  and  good  as  she  is  fair!" 

And  then  to  place  the  marriage-wreath  upon  that  bright  young 
brow,  — 

Oh!  no  —  not  that  —  't  is  full  of  thorns.  —  Alas!  I  'm  wander- 
ing now. 

This  weak,  weak  head  !  this  foolish  heart !  they  '11  cheat  me  to 
the  last: 

I  've  been  a  dreamer  all  my  life,  and  now  that  life  is  past ! 

Thou  'It  have  thy  father's  eyes,  my  child  !     Oh  !  once  how  kind 

they  were  ! 
His  long  black  lashes,  his  own  smile,  and  just  such  raven  hair. 
But  here 's  a  mark — Poor  innocent!  he'll  love  thee  for 't  the 

less  — 
Like  that  upon  thy  mother's  cheek,  his  lips  were  wont  to  press. 

And  yet  perhaps  I  do  him  wrong;  —  perhaps,  when  all's  forgot 
But  our  young  loves,  in  memory's  mood  he  '11  kiss  this  very 

spot. 
Oh  !  then,  my  dearest !  clasp  thine  arms  about  his  neck  full  fast ; 
And  whisper  that  I  bless'd  him  now,  and  loved  him  to  the  last. 

I  've  heard  that  little  infants  converse  by  smiles  and  signs 
With  the  guardian  band  of  angels  that  round  about  them  shines. 
Unseen  by  grosser  senses  ;  beloved  one  !  dost  thou 
Smile  so  upon  thy  heavenly  friends,  and  commune  with  them 

now? 

48  H"* 


373  MRS.   SOUTHEY. 


And  hast  thou  not  one  look  for  me  ?    Those  little  restless  eyes 
Are  wand'ring,  wand'ring  everywhere,  the  while  thy  mother  dies; 
And  yet,  perhaps  thou  'rt  seeking  me,  expecting  me,  mine  own  ! 
Come,  Death  !  and  make  me  to  my  child  at  least  in  spirit  known. 


The  beauty  of  the  following,  as  of  the  foregoing  extracts,  will 
be  manifest  without  comment:  indeed,  Mrs.  Southey  is  one  of 
those  particularly  natural  and  lucid  writers,  whose  genius  is 
apparent  without  the  aid  of  critic  or  eulogist. 


THE    RIVER. 

River  !  river  !  little  river  ! 

Bright  you  sparkle  on  your  way  ; 
O'er  the  yellow  pebbles  dancing, 
Through  the  flowers  and  foliage  glancing, 

Like  a  child  at  play. 

River!  river  !  swelling  river  ! 

On  you  rush  o'er  rough  and  smooth ; 
iLouder,  faster,  brawling,  leaping 
'Over  rocks,  by  rose-banks  sweeping. 

Like  impetuous  youth. 

River  !  river  !  brimming  river  ! 

Broad,  and  deep,  and  still  as  Time; 
Seeming  still,  yet  still  in  motion, 
Tending  onward  to  the  ocean, 

Just  like  mortal  prime. 

River!  river!  rapid  river! 

Swifter  now  you  slip  away  ; 
Swift  and  silent  as  an  arrow. 
Through  a  channel  dark  and  narrow, 

Like  life's  closing  day. 


MRS.   SOUTHEY.  379 


River!  river!  headlong  river! 

Down  you  dash  into  the  sea  ; 
Sea,  that  line  hath  never  sounded, 
Sea,  that  voyage  hath  never  rounded, 

Like  Eternity. 


THE  DEATH   OF    THE    FLOWERS. 


How  happily,  how  happily,  the  flowers  die  away ! 
Oh,  could  we  but  return  to  earth  as  easily  as  they  ! 
Just  live  a  life  of  sunshine,  of  innocence,  and  bloom  : 
Then  drop  without  decrepitude  or  pain  into  the  tomb. 

The  gay  and  glorious  creatures  !    "  They  neither  toil  nor  spin," 
Yet  lo  !  what  goodly  raiment  they  are  all  apparell'd  in  ; 
No  tears  are  on  their  beauty,  but  dewy  gems  more  bright 
Than  ever  brow  of  Eastern  queen  endiadem'd  with  light. 

The  young  rejoicing  creatures  !  their  pleasures  never  pall, 
Nor  lose  in  sweet  contentment,  because  so  free  to  all ; 
The  dew,  the  shower,  the  sunshine,  the  balmy  blessed  air 
Spend  nothing  of  their  freshness,  though  all  may  freely  share. 

The  happy  careless  creatures  !  of  time  they  take  no  heed  ; 

Nor  weary  of  his  creeping,  nor  tremble  at  his  speed  ; 

Nor  sigh  with  sick  impatience,  and  wish  the  light  away  ; 

Nor  when 't  is  gone  cry  dolefully,  "  Would  God  that  it  were  day  !" 

And  when  their  lives  are  over,  they  drop  away  lo  rest. 
Unconscious  of  the  penal  doom,  on  holy  Nature's  breast. 
No  pain  have  they  in  dying  —  no  shrinking  from  decay  ; 
Oh,  could  we  but  return  to  earth  as  easily  as  they ! 


380  MRS.   SOUTHEY. 


mariner's  hymn. 

Launch  thy  bark,  mariner  ! 

Christian,  God  speed  thee ! 
Let  loose  the  rudder-bands  — 

Good  angels  lead  thee  ! 
Set  thy  sails  warily, 

Tempests  will  come ; 
Steer  thy  course  steadily  ; 

Christian,  steer  home ! 

Look  to  the  weather-bow, 

Breakers  are  round  thee  ; 
Let  fall  the  plummet  now. 

Shallows  may  ground  thee. 
Reef  in  the  foresail,  there ! 

Hold  the  helm  fast ! 
So — let  the  vessel  wear  — 

There  swept  the  blast. 

"  What  of  the  night,  watchman  ? 

What  of  the  night  ?" 
"  Cloudy,  all  quiet, 

No  land  yet — all 's  right." 
Be  wakeful,  be  vigilant ; 

Danger  may  be 
At  an  hour  when  all  seemeth 

Securest  to  thee. 

How  !  gains  the  leak  so  fast ! 

Clean  out  the  hold  ; 
Hoist  up  thy  merchandise, 

Heave  out  thy  gold  ; 
There  —  let  the  ingots  go  — 

Now  the  ship  rights  ; 
Hurrah!  the  harbour's  near, 

Lo  !  the  red  lights  ! 


Slacken  not  sail  yet 

At  inlet  or  island  ; 
Straight  for  the  beacon  steer, 

Straight  for  the  high  land ; 
Crowd  all  thy  canvass  on, 

Cut  through  the  foam  : 
Christian  !  cast  anchor  now, 

Heaven  is  thy  home  ! 


THE    LAST    JOURNEY. 

Michaud,  in  his  description  of  an  Egyptian  funeral  procession,  which  he 
met  on  its  way  to  the  cemetery  of  Rosetta,  says  —  "The  procession  we  saw 
pass  stopped  before  certain  houses,  and  sometimes  receded  a  few  steps.  I 
was  told  that  the  dead  stopped  thus  before  the  doors  of  their  friends  to  bid 
them  a  last  farewell,  and  before  those  of  their  enemies  to  effect  a  recon- 
ciliation before  they  parted  for  ever."  —  Correspondance  d^Orient,  par   MM. 

MlCHAUI)  et  POUJOULAT. 

Slowly,  with  measured  tread, 
Onward,  we  bear  the  dead 

To  his  long  home. 
Short  grows  the  homeward  road, 
On  with  your  mortal  load. 

O  Grave  !  we  come. 

Yet,  yet — ah  !  hasten  not 
Past  each  familiar  spot 

Where  he  hath  been; 
Where  late  he  walked  in  glee, 
There  from  henceforth  to  be 

Never  more  seen. 

Yet,  yet  —  ah!  slowly  move  — 
Bear  not  the  form  we  love 

Fast  from  our  sight  — 


382  MRS.  SOUTHEY. 


Let  the  air  breathe  on  him, 
And  the  sun  leave  on  him 
Last  looks  of  light. 

Rest  ye  —  set  down  the  bier, 
One  he  loved  dwelleth  here. 

Let  the  dead  lie 
A  moment  that  door  beside. 
Wont  to  fly  open  wide 

Ere  he  came  nigh. 

Hearken  !  —  he  speaketh  yet  — 
"Oh,  friend  !  will  thou  forget 

(Friend  more  than  brother  !) 
How  hand  in  hand  we  've  gone, 
Heart  with  heart  linked  in  one  — 

All  to  each  other  ? 

"  Oh,  friend  !  I  go  from  thee, 
Where  the  worm  feasteth  free, 

Darkly  to  dwell  — 
Giv'st  thou  no  parting  kiss  ? 
Friend  !  is  it  come  to  this  ? 

Oh,  friend,  farewell !" 

Uplift  your  load  again. 

Take  up  the  mourning  strain  ! 

Pour  the  deep  wail ! 
Lo  !  the  expected  one 
To  his  place  passeth  on  — 

Grave  !  bid  him  hail. 

Yet,  yet  —  ah  !  — slowly  move  ; 
Bear  not  the  form  we  love 

Fast  from  our  sight  — 
Let  the  air  breathe  on  him, 
And  the  sun  leave  on  him 

Last  looks  of  light. 


MRS,   SOUTHEY.  383 


Here  dwells  his  mortal  foe  ; 
Lay  the  departed  low, 

E'en  at  his  gate.  — 
Will  the  dead  speak  again  ? 
Uttering  proud  boasts  and  vain, 

Last  words  of  hate  ? 

Lo  !  the  dead  lips  unclose  — 
List!  list!  what  sounds  are  those, 

-    Plaintive  and  low  ? 
"  Oh  thou,  mine  enemy  ! 
Come  forth  and  look  on  me 
Ere  hence  I  go. 

"  Curse  not  thy  foeman  now  — 
Mark!  on  his  pallid  brow 

Whose  seal  is  set ! 
Pard'ning  I  past  away  — 
Thou  —  wage  not  war  with  clay  - 

Pardon —  forget." 

Now  his  last  labour 's  done  ! 
Now,  now  the  goal  is  won ! 

Oh,  Grave!  we  come. 
Seal  up  this  precious  dust  — 
Land  of  the  good  and  just. 

Take  the  soul  home  ! 


I    NEVER    CAST    A    FLOWER    AWAY. 

I  never  cast  a  flower  away, 

The  gift  of  one  who  cared  for  me  — 
A  little  flower  —  a  faded   flower  — 

But  it  was  done  reluctantly. 


384  MRS.  SOUTHEY. 


I  never  looked  a  last  adieu 

To  things  familiar,  but  my  heart 

Shrank  with  a  feeling  almost  pain, 
Even  from  their  lifelessness  to  part. 

I  never  spoke  the  word  "Farewell," 
But  with  an  utterance  faint  and  broken; 

An  earth-sick  longing  for  the  time 

When  it  shall  never  more  be  spoken. 


TO    DEATH. 


Come  not  in  terrors  clad,  to  claim 

An  unresisting  prey  — 
Come  like  an  evening  shadow.  Death  ! 

So  stealthily  !  so  silently  : 
And  shut  mine  eyes,  and  steal  my  breath 

Then  willingly  —  oh  !  willingly 
With  thee  1  '11  go  away. 

What  need  to  clutch  with  iron  grasp 
What  gentlest  touch  may  take  ? 

What  need,  with  aspect  dark,  to  scare, 
So  awfully  —  so  terribly. 

The  weary  soul  would  hardly  care. 

Called  quietly,  called  tenderly, 

From  thy  dread  power  to  break  ? 

'Tis  not  as  when  thou  markest  out 

The  young  —  the  blest  —  the  gay; 

The  loved,  the  loving ;  they  who  dream 
So  happily,  so  hopefully  ; 

Then  harsh  thy  kindest  call  may  seem, 
And  shrinkingly —  reluctantly  — 
The  summoned  may  obey. 


MRS.    SOUTHEY.  385 


But,  I  have  drunk  enough  of  life 

(The  cup  assigned  to  me 
Dashed  with  a  little  sweet  at  best, 
So  scantily  —  so  scantily)  — 
To  know  full  well  that  all  the  rest, 
More  bitterly  —  more  bitterly 
Druo-ored  to  the  last  will  be:  — 


too" 


And  I  may  live  to  pain  some  heart 
That  kindly  cares  for  nie  — 

To  pain,  but  not  to  bless.     O   Death  ! 
Come  quietly  —  come  lovingly, 

And  shut  mine  eyes,  and  steal  my  breath  ; 
Then  willingly  — oh  !  willingly 
With  thee  I  '11  go  away. 

49  u 


386  FELICIA   HEMANS. 


FELICIA  HEMANS. 

It  would  be  as  much  out  of  good  taste  as  it  is  unnecessary,  to 
prefix  a  memoir  of  Mrs.  Ilemans  to  this  brief  estimate  of  her 
writings.  The  melancholy  circumstances  connected  with  her  his- 
tory are  too  generally  known  already,  and  should  be  screened 
rather  than  unveiled. 

Suffice  it  to  say,  therefore,  that  Mrs.  Hemans  was  born  in 
1793,  of  a  highly  respectable  family  ;  that  she  was  married 
early  in  life  to  Captain  Hemans,  from  whom  she  subsequently 
separated  ;  and  that,  after  a  life  of  singular  purity  and  goodness, 
she  died  in  1835. 

I  think  there  can  be  no  doubt  that  Mrs.  Hemans  takes  deci- 
dedly one  of  the  most  prominent  places  among  our  Female  Poets. 
She  seems  to  me  to  represent  and  unite  as  purely  and  completely 
as  any  other  writer  in  our  literature  the  peculiar  and  specific 
qualities  of  the  female  mind.  Her  works  are  to  my  mind  a  per- 
fect embodiment  of  woman's  soul :  —  I  would  say  that  they  are 
intensely  feminine.  The  delicacy,  the  softness,  the  pureness,  the 
quick  observant  vision,  the  ready  sensibility,  the  devotedness, 
the  faith  of  woman's  nature  find  in  Mrs.  Hemans  their  ultra 
representative.  The  very  diffuseness  of  her  style  is  feminine, 
and  one  would  not  wish  it  altered.  Diction,  manner,  senti- 
ment, passion,  and  belief  are  in  her  as  delicately  rounded  off 
as  are  the  bones  and  muscles  of  the  Medicean  Venus.  There  is 
not  a  harsh  or  angular  line  in  her  whole  mental  contour.  I  do 
not  know  a  violent,  spasmodic,  or  contorted  idea  in  all  her  wri- 
tings ;  but  every  page  is  full  of  grace,  harmony,  and  expressive 
glowing  beauty. 

In  nothing  can  one  trace  her  feminine  spirit  more  strikingly 
than  in  her  domestic  Aojne-loving  ideas.  Her  first  volume,  writ- 
ten before  she  was  fifteen,  is  chiefly  about  home :  it  is  entitled 
The.  Donicfitic  Jlffections  ;  and  is  full  of  calm  sweet  pictures  of 
most  gentle  and  refining  tendency. 


I  would  particularly  refer  the  reader  to  that  exquisite  passage 
in  the  poem  where  Domestic  Bliss  is  compared  to  the  Violet,  smi- 
ling in  the  vale.  The  image  is  very  purely  conceived,  and  the 
spirit  and  treatment  of  it  are  most  spiritual  and  elevating. 

No  where,  indeed,  can  we  find  a  more  pure  and  refined  idea  of 
home  than  that  which  pervades  Mrs,  Hcmans's  writings  on  the 
subject.  She  reproduces  the  conception  in  very  many  instances, 
and  always  with  the  same  chasteness.  The  beautiful  lines  enti- 
tied  The  Homes  of  England,  in  which  every  class  is  made  to 
participate  in  domestic  pleasures  ;  those  called  d  Domestic  Scene, 
where  the  father  is  represented  as  reading  the  evening  Psalms  in 
the  soft  sunset,  while  on  his  face  shines  — 

"  A  radiance  all  the  spirit's  own, 
Caught  not  from  sun  or  star  ;" 

and  many  more  passages  of  similar  character,  might  be  cited  in 
illustration. 

And  not  only  of  the  homes  of  earth  has  Mrs.  Hemans   a  fer- 
vent and  beautiful  conception  ;  but  of  a 

.     "  home  more  pure  than  this, 
Set  in  the  deathless  azure  of  the  sky,"  — 

she  fails  not  to  speak  also.  The  Temporal  home  suggests  the  Spi- 
ritual. The  Mortal's  resting-place  on  Earth  prefigures  the  Im- 
mortal's  resting-place  in  Heaven.  The  idea  of  heaven  as  a  home 
is  beautifully  wrought  out  in  her  lines  called  The  Two  Homes, 
wherein  a  desolate  stranger  has  a  glowing  picture  of  a  happy 
home  placed  before  him,  and  then  is  asked  to  describe  his  own. 
How  touching  is  the  sadness  of  the  reply  !  — 

.     .     .     "  In  solemn  peace  't  is  lying 

Far  o'er  the  deserts  and  the  tombs  away ; 

'T  is  where  I,  too,  am  loved  with  love  undying, 

And  fond  hearts  wait  my  step  :  —  But  where  are  they  ? 


388  FELICIA   HEMANS. 


»  Ask  where  the  earth's  departed  have  their  dwelling, 
Ask  of  the  clouds,  the  stars,  the  trackless  air  ; 

I  know  it  not,  yet  trust  the  whisper,  telling 

My  lonely  heart  that  love  unchanged  is  there." 

In  another  very  important  respect  Mrs.  Hemans  finely  repre- 
sents the  pure  sentiment  of  her  sex :  I  mean  in  her  sensitive, 
deep,  and  clinging  sense  of  affection.  Her  lovingness  of  feeling 
is  exquisite.  To  passion  she  is  well  nigh  a  stranger;  but  it  may 
be  questioned  whether  passion  ever  proceeds  from  so  great  or  so 
true  a  love  as  that  more  pervading  and  more  sympathetic  feeling 
which  expresses  itself  less  wildly.  Passion  may  be  said  to  be  a 
sort  of  madness,  resulting  from  an  overpowering  sense  of  beauty 
or  desire  ;  and  seems  to  have  in  it  but  little  of  the  true  nature  of 
love  at  all.  Real  affection  is  ever  mild,  ever  gracious  and  benign. 
It  never  raves  till  it  becomes  selfish ;  and  then  it  ceases  to  be 
love,  and  grows  into  a  kind  of  guilt. 

Byron  is  a  poet  of  passion  —  indeed,  of  all  others  the  poet  of 
passion.  Love  is  with  him  a  selfish  and  unrestrainable  idolatry 
—  wild  and  mighty,  but  fickle  and  forgetful.  It  is,  while  it  lasts, 
a  tempest,  a  hurricane,  and  it  scathes  where  it  alights  ;  but  its 
force  is  soon  spent,  and  then  there  is  no  trace  of  it,  but  in  the  ruin 
it  has  wrought. 

Far  different  is  Mrs.  Hemans.  Affection  is  with  her  a  serene, 
radiating  principle,  mild  and  ethereal  in  its  nature,  gentle  in  its 
attributes,  pervading  and  lasting  in  its  effects.  Her  soul  is  full 
of  sympathies;  and  the  refusal  of  sympathy  seems  to  her  almost 
the  height  of  crime.  This  is  pathetically  shown  in  her  poem  en- 
titled The  Burial  of  the  Forest,  founded  on  the  following  inci- 
dent :  — 

An  Indian  who  had  established  himself  in  a  township  of  Maine, 
feelintr  indignantly  the  want  of  sympathy  evinced  towards  him 
by  the  white  inhabitants,  particularly  on  the  death  of  his  only 
child,  gave  up  his  farm  soon  afterwards,  dug  up  the  body  of  his 
child,  and  carried  it  with  him  two  hundred  miles  through  the  for- 
est, to  join  his  tribe  of  the  Canadian  Indians. 

Mrs.  Hemans's  Poem  is  a  truly  poetical  version  of  this  touch- 
ing fact.     Very  nobly  speaks  the  high-souled  father  as  — 


FELICIA    HEMANS.  389 


"  With  spirit  high  and  fearless, 
As  by  mighty  wings  upborne," — 

he  pursues  his  solitary  way. 

I  have  rais'd  thee  from  the  grave-sod, 
By  the  white  man's  path  defiled ; 

On  to  the  ancestral  wilderness 
I  bear  thy  dust,  my  child. 

I  have  ask'd  the  ancient  desert 

To  give  my  dead  a  place. 
Where  the  stately  footsteps  of  the  free 

Alone  should  leave  a  trace. 

And  the  tossing  pines  made  answer  — 
"  Go,  bring  us  back  thine  own ;" 

And  the  streams  from  all  the  hunter's  hills 
Rush'd  with  an  echoing  tone. 

Thou  shalt  rest  by  sounding  waters 

That  yet  untamed  may  roll ; 
The  voices  of  that  chainless  host 

With  joy  shall  fill  thy  soul. 

To  the  forests,  to  the  cedars. 
To  the  warrior  and  his  bow. 

Back,  back  !  —  I  bore  thee  laughing  thence, 
I  bear  thee  slumbering  now  ! 

I  bear  thee  unto  burial 

With  the  mighty  hunters  gone ; 

I  shall  hear  thee  in  the  forest-breeze, 
Thou  wilt  speak  of  joy,  my  son! 

In  the  silence  of  the  midnight 

I  journey  with  the  dead; 
But  my  heart  is  strong,  my  step  is  fleet, 

My  father's  path  I  tread. 


390  FELICIA   HEMANS. 


Mrs.  Hemans  has  all  the  harmony  of  expression,  all  the  subtle 
perception  and  refined  love  of  beauty,  which  distinguish  her  sex. 
Her  verses  are  at  once  pictures  and  music.  What  versification 
can  be  more  beautiful  and  harmonious  than  this,  from  the  J^oice  of 
Spring?  — 

I  come,  I  come !  ye  have  call'd  me  long ; 
I  come  o'er  the  mountains  with  light  and  song! 
Ye  may  trace  my  steps  o'er  the  wakening  earth, 
By  the  winds  which  tell  of  the  violet's  birth  ; 
By  the  primrose  stars  in  the  shadowy  grass, 
By  the  green  leaves  opening  as  I  pass. 

The  sensibility  of  Mrs.  Hemans  to  the  influences  of  beauty  is 
strikingly  seen  in  her  passion  for  flowers.  Nothing  can  be  more 
refined.  Some  poets  write  of  flowers  in  the  spirit  of  botanists. 
Not  so  our  author.  Her  worship  is  paid  to  the  spirit  of  beauty 
indwelling  in  them — and  no  logic  can  explain  her  devotion  to 
her.     She  asks  in  one  place  — 

By  what  strange  spell 
Is  it,  that  ever  when  I  gaze  on  flowers 
I  dream  of  music  ?    Something  in  their  hues 
All  melting  into  colour'd  harmonies, 
Wafts  a  swift  thought  of  interwoven  chords, 
Of  blended  singing  tones,  that  swell  and  die 
In  tenderest  falls  away. 

I  see  in  that  simple  inquiry  a  plummet  sounding  the  lowest 
deep  of  Truth.  I  see  in  it  a  recognition  of  the  infinite  fact,  that, 
as  the  heart  of  Nature  is  everywhere  beauty,  so  it  is  everywhere 
music. 

But,  after  all,  it  is  chiefly  in  the  strength  of  her  religious  senti- 
ment that  Mrs.  Hemans  most  completely  typifies  and  represents 
her  sex.  It  has  not  now  to  be  proved,  I  imagine,  that  in  simple 
steadfastness  of  faith,  in  gentle  calmness  of  hope,  and  in  SAveet 
enthusiasm  of  piety,  woman  far  surpasses  man.  She  has  more 
awe,  more  reverence,  more  reliance,  more  implicitness,  than  he : 


FELICIA   HEMANS.  331 


and  hence  her  greater  fervour  of  religion.  The  mild,  forgiving, 
loving  doctrines  of  the  Man  of  Sorrows,  too,  find  a  readier  home 
in  her  heart  than  in  man's  :  and  hence  her  prominence  in  all 
works  of  charity  and  goodness.  But  for  this,  man,  with  his 
wars,  strifes,  and  passions,  would  long  since  have  turned  this 
earth  into  a  hell. 

Mrs.  Hemans,  I  repeat,  embodies  woman's  religious  excel- 
lence most  completely.  Religion  is  with  her  both  an  intellectual 
conviction  and  a  moral  persuasion.  We  may  see  here  how  she 
argues  on  the  subject. 

EXTRACT    FROM    THE    SCEPTIC. 

But  hop'st  thou,  in  thy  panoply  of  pride, 

Heaven's  messenger,  AlHiction,  to  deride  ? 

In  thine  own  strength  unaided  to  defy, 

With  Stoic  smile,  the  arrows  of  the  sky  ? 

Torn  by  the  Vulture,  fettered  to  the  rock. 

Still,  demigod  !  the  tempest  wilt  thou  mock  ? 

Alas  !  the  tower  that  crests  the  mountain's  brow 

A  thousand  years  may  awe  the  vale  below, 

Yet  not  the  less  be  shatter'd  on  its  height. 

By  one  dread  moment  of  the  earthquake's  might! 

A  thousand  pangs  thy  bosom  may  have  borne, 

In  silent  fortitude,  or  haughty  scorn, 

Till  comes  the  one,  the  master-anguish,  sent 

To  break  the  mighty  heart  that  ne'er  was  bent. 

Oh  !  what  is  Nature's  strength  ?  —  the  vacant  eye, 
By  mind  deserted,  hath  a  dread  reply  ! 
The  wild  delirious  laughter  of  despair, 
The  mirth  of  frenzy  —  seek  an  answer  there  ! 
Turn  not  away,  though  Pity's  cheek  grow  pale. 
Close  not  thine  ear  against  their  awful  tale. 
They  tell  thee.  Reason,  wandering  from  the  ray 
Of  faith,  the  blazing  pillar  of  her  way. 
In  the  mid-darkness  of  the  stormy  \vave, 
Forsook  the  struggling  soul  she  could  not  save ! 


392  FELICIA   HEMANS. 


Weep  not,  sad  moralist !  o'er  desert  plains, 
Strew'd  with  the  wrecks  of  grandeur,  mouldering  fanes, 
Arches  of  triumph,  long  with  weeds  o'ergrown, 
And  regal  cities,  now  the  serpent's  own  : 
Earth  has  more  awful  ruins  —  one  lost  mind. 
Whose  star  is  quench'd,  hath  lessons  for  mankind 
Of  deeper  import  than  each  prostrate  dome, 
Mingling  its  marble  with  the  dust  of  Rome. 


Note. —  It  is  a  source  of  deep  regret  to  the  Compiler,  that  he  has  not  been 
at  liberty  to  extract  a  single  entire  poem  from  the  works  of  Mrs.  Hemans. 
The  genius  of  this  gifted  lady  undoubtedly  demands  the  most  ample  and 
copious  illustration  from  any  one  who  pretends  to  criticise  it;  and  the 
Author  originally  selected  a  sufficient,  yet  a  comparatively  small,  number 
of  passages  to  support  the  title  of  Mrs.  Hemans  to  the  high  place  which  be 
meant  to  claim  for  her  amongst  our  Poetesses.  The  Proprietor  of  the  Copy- 
right, however,  declined  to  permit  the  republication  of  even  the  few  selections 
which  were  made ;  and  hence  the  Compiler  has  been  compelled  to  offer 
his  opinions,  without  presenting  any  illustrations  in  support  of  tliem.  He 
feels  bound  to  mention  this,  lest  it  should  be  said,  as  it  might  very  justly, 
that  the  writings  of  Mrs.  Hemans  have  not  been  considered  so  fully  as  they 
ought  to  have  been. 


(The  holders  of  the  copy-right  of  Mrs.  Hemans's  Works  hav- 
ing prevented  the  editor  of  this  volume  from  illustrating  his  criti- 
cisms with  the  liberal  extracts  he  otherwise  would  have  made, 
the  following  poems  are  added  in  the  present  edition.) 

THE    AMERICAN    FOREST    GIRL. 

A  fearful  gift  upon  thy  heart  is  laid, 
Woman !  — a  power  to  suffer  and  to  love, 
Therefore  thou  so  canst  pity. 

Wildly  and  mournfully  the  Indian  drum 

On  the  deep  hush  of  moonlight  forests  broke;  — 

"  Sing  us  a  death-song,  for  thine  hour  is  come,"  — 
So  the  red  warriors  to  their  captive  spoke. 


FELICIA   HEMANS.  393 


Still,  and  amidst  those  dusky  forms  alone, 

A  youth,  a  fair-haired  youth  of  England  stood, 
Like  a  king's  son  ;  though  from  his  cheek  had  flown 

The  mantling  crimson  of  the  island-blood. 
And  his  pressed  lips  looked  marble.  — Fiercely  bright, 
And  high  around  him,  blazed  the  fires  of  night, 
Rocking  beneath  the  cedars  to  and  fro. 
As  the  wind  passed,  and  with  a  fitful  glow, 
Lighting  the  victim's  face  :  —  But  who  could  tell 
Of  what  within  his  secret  heart  befel, 
Known  but  to  Heaven  that  hour  ?  —Perchance  a  thought 
Of  his  far  home  then  so  intensely  wrought, 
That  its  full  image,  pictured  to  his  eye 
On  the  dark  ground  of  mortal  agony 
Rose  clear  as  day  !  — and  he  might  see  the  band 
Of  his  young  sisters  wandering  hand  in  hand, 
Where  the  laburnum  drooped  ;  or  haply  binding 
The  jasmine,  up  the  door's  low  pillars  winding  ; 
Or,  as  day  closed  upon  their  gentle  mirth, 
Gathering  with  braided  hair,  around  the  hearth 
Where  sat  their  mother  ;  —  and  that  mother's  face 
Its  grave  sweet  smile  yet  wearing  in  the  place 
Where  so  it  ever  smiled  !  —  Perchance  the  prayer 
Learned  at  her  knee  came  back  on  his  despair ; 
The  blessing  from  her  voice,  the  very  tone 
Of  her  '^  Good-night,"  might  breathe  from  boyhood  gone  !— 
He  started  and  looked  up  :  —  thick  cypress  boughs 

Full  of  strange  sound,  waved  o'er  him,  darkly  red 
In  the  red  stormy  firelight; —  savage  brows. 

With  tall  plumes  crested  and  wild  hues  o'erspread. 
Girt  him  like  feverish  phantoms  ;  and  pale  stars 
Looked  through  the  branches  as  through  dungeon  bars, 
Shedding  no  hope.— He  knew,  he  felt  his  doom  — 
Oh !  what  a  tale  to  shadow  with  its  gloom 
That  happy  hall  in  England  '.—Idle  fear  ! 
Would  the  winds  tell  it?— Who  might  dream  or  hear 
Tho  secret  of  the  forests  ?— To  the  stake 

They  bound  him  ;  and  the  proud  young  soldier  strove 

50 


394  FELICIA   HEMANS. 


His  father's  spirit  in  his  breast  to  wake, 

Trusting  to  die  in  silence  !     He,  the  love 
Of  many  hearts  !  —  the  fondly  reared, — the  fair, 
Gladdening  all  eyes  to  see  !  —  And  fettered  there 
He  stood  beside  his  death-pyre,  and  the  brand 
Flamed  up  to  light  it,  in  the  chieftain's  hand. 
He  thought  upon  his  God. — Hush!  hark! — a  cry 
Breaks  on  the  stern  and  dread  solemnity, — 
A  step  hath  pierced  the  ring !  —  Who  dares  intrude 
On  the  dark  hunters  in  their  vengeful  mood  ?  — 
A  girl—  a  young  slight  girl —  a  fawn-like  child 
Of  green  Savannas  and  the  leafy  wild, 
Springing  unmarked  till  then,  as  some  lone  flower, 
Happy  because  the  sunshine  is  its  dower ; 
Yet  one  that  knew  how  early  tears  are  shed,  — 
For  hers  had  mourned  a  playmate  brother  dead. 

She  had  sat  gazing  on  the  victim  long, 

Until  the  pity  of  her  soul  grew  strong ; 

And,  by  its  passion's  deepening  fervour  swayed, 

Ev'n  to  the  stake  she  rushed,  and  gently  laid 

His  bright  head  on  her  bosom,  and  around 

His  form  her  slender  arms  to  shield  it  wound 

Like  close  Liannes  ;  then  raised  her  glittering  eye 

And  clear-toned  voice  that  said,  "  He  shall  not  die  !" 

"  He  shall  not  die  !"  —  the  gloomy  forest  thrilled 

To  that  sweet  sound.     A  sudden  wonder  fell 
On  the  fierce  throng ;  and  heart  and  hand  were  stilled. 

Struck  down,  as  by  the  whisper  of  a  spell. 
They  gazed,  —  their  dark  souls  bowed  before  the  maid, 
She  of  the  dancing  step  in  wood  and  glade  ! 
And,  as  her  cheek  flushed  through  its  olive  hue. 
As  her  black  tresses  to  the  night-wind  flew. 
Something  o'ermastered  them  from  that  young  mien  — 
Something  of  heaven,  in  silence  felt  and  seen  ; 
And  seeming,  to  their  child-like  faith,  a  token 
That  the  Great  Spirit  by  her  voice  had  spoken. 


FELICIA   HEMANS. 


395 


They  loosed  the  bonds  that  held  their  captive's  breath : 
From  his  pale  lips  they  took  the  cup  of  death  ; 
They  quenched  the  brand  beneath  the  cypress  tree  ; 
"Away,"  they  cried,  "  young  stranger,  thou  art  free  !" 


THE    LANDING    OF    THE    PILGRIM    FATHERS. 

The  breaking  waves  dashed  high 
On  a  stern  and  rock-bound  coast, 

And  the  woods,  against  a  stormy  sky, 
Their  giant  branches  tost ; 

And  the  heavy  night  hung  dark 

The  hills  and  waters  o'er. 
When  a  band  of  exiles  moored  their  bark 
On  the  wild  New  England  shore. 

Not  as  the  conqueror  comes. 

They,  the  true-hearted  came. 
Not  with  the  roll  of  the  stirring  drums, 

And  the  trumpet  that  sings  of  fame  ; 

Not  as  the  flying  come, 

In  silence  and  in  fear,  — 
They  shook  the  depths  of  the  desert's  gloom 

With  their  hymns  of  lofty  cheer. 

Amidst  the  storm  they  sang, 

And  the  stars  heard  and  the  sea  ! 

And  the  sounding  isles  of  the  dim  woods  rang 
To  the  anthem  of  the  free  ! 

The  ocean-eagle  soared 

From  his  nest  by  the  white  wave's  foam, 


399  FELICIA    HEMANS. 


And  the  rocking  pines  of  tlie  forest  roared  — 
This  was  their  welcome  home ! 

There  were  men  with  hoary  hair, 

Amidst  that  pilgrim-band  — 
Why  had  they  come  to  wither  there 

Away  from  their  childhood's  land  ? 

There  was  woman's  fearless  eye, 

Lit  by  her  deep  love's  truth  ; 
There  was  manhood's  brow  serenely  high, 

And  the  fiery  heart  of  youth. 

What  sought  they  thus  afar? 

Bright  jewels  of  the  mine? 
The  wealth  of  seas,  the  spoils  of  war? 

—  They  sought  a  faith's  pure  shrine  ! 

Ay,  call  it  holy  ground, 

The  soil  where  first  they  trod  ! 
They  have  left  unstained  what  there  they  found 

Freedom  to  worship  God  ! 


THE    TRAVELLER    AT    THE    SOURCE    OF    THE    NILE. 

In  sunset's  light  o'er  Afric  thrown, 

A  wanderer  proudly  stood 
Beside  the  well-spring,  deep  and  lone, 

Of  Egypt's  awful  flood  ; 
The  cradle  of  that  mighty  birth, 
So  long  a  hidden  thing  to  earth. 

He  heard  its  life's  first  murmuring  sound, 

A  low  mysterious  tone  ; 
A  music  sought,  but  never  found 

By  kings  and  warriors  gone  ; 


FELICIA   HEMANS.  397 


He  listened  —  and  his  heart  beat  high  — 
That  was  the  song  of  victory  ! 

The  rapture  of  a  conqueror's  mood 

Rushed  burning  through  his  frame, 

The  depths  of  that  green  solitude 
Its  torrents  could  not  tame, 

Though  stillness  lay,  with  eve's  last  smile, 

Round  those  calm  fountains  of  the  Nile. 

Night  came  with  stars  :  —  across  his  soul 
There  swept  a  sudden  change. 

E'en  at  the  pilgrim's  glorious  goal, 
A  shadow  dark  and  strange. 

Breathed  from  the  thought,  so  swift  to  fall 

O'er  triumph's  hour  —  And  is  this  all? 

No  more  than  this  !  —  what  seemed  it  noiv 
First  by  that  spring  to  stand  ? 

A  thousand  streams  of  lovelier  flow 
Bathed  his  own  mountain  land  ! 

Whence,  far  o'er  waste  and  ocean  track. 

Their  wild  sweet  voices  called  him  back. 

They  called  him  back  to  many  a  glade. 
His  childhood's  haunt  of  play, 

Where  brightly  through  the  beechen  shade 
Their  waters  glanced  away  ; 

They  called  hira,  with  their  sounding  waves, 

Back  to  his  fathers'  hills  and  graves. 

But  darkly  mingling  with  the  thought 

Of  each  familiar  scene. 
Rose  up  a  fearful  vision,  fraught 

W^ith  all  that  lay  between  ; 
The  Arab's  lance,  the  desert's  gloom, 
The  whirling  sands,  the  red  simoom  ! 

KK 


398  FELICIA  HEMANS. 


Where  was  the  glow  of  power  and  pride  ? 

The  spirit  born  to  roam  ? 
His  weary  heart  within  him  died 

With  yearnings  for  his  home  ; 
All  vainly  struggling  to  repress 
That  gush  of  painful  tenderness. 

He  wept  —  the  stars  of  Afric's  heaven 

Beheld  his  bursting  tears. 
E'en  on  that  spot  where  fate  had  given 

The  meed  of  toiling  years. 
—  Oh,  happiness  !  how  far  we  flee 
Thine  own  sweet  paths  in  search  of  thee  ! 


MOZART  S    REQUIEM. 


A  short  time  before  the  death  of  Mozart,  a  stranger  of  remarkable  ap- 
pearance, and  dressed  in  deep  mourning,  called  at  his  house,  and  requested 
him  to  prepare  a  requiem,  in  his  best  style,  for  the  funeral  of  a  distinguished 
person.  The  sensitive  imagination  of  the  composer  immediately  seized 
upon  the  circumstance  as  an  omen  of  his  own  fate  ;  and  the  nervous  anxie- 
ty with  which  he  laboured  to  fulfil  the  task,  had  the  effect  of  realizing  his 
impression.  He  died  within  a  few  days  after  completing  this  magnificent 
piece  of  music,  which  was  performed  at  his  interment. 

These  birds  of  Paradise  but  long  to  flee 
Back  to  their  native  mansion. 

Prophecy  of  Dante. 

A  requiem  !  — and  for  whom  ? 

For  beauty  in  its  bloom  ? 
For  valour  fallen  —  a  broken  rose  or  sword  ? 

A  dirge  for  king  or  chief, 

With  pomp  of  stately  grief, 
Banner,  and  torch,  and  waving  plume  deplored  ? 

•  The  arrival  of  Bruce  at  what  he  considered  to  be  the  source  of  the  Nile, 
was  followed  almost  immediately  by  feelings  thus  suddenly  fluctuating  from 
triumph  to  despondence. — See  his  Travels  in  Myssinia. 


Not  so,  it  is  not  so  ! 

That  warning  voice  I  know, 
From  other  worlds  a  strange  mysterious  tone ; 

A  solemn  funeral  air 

It  called  me  to  prepare, 
And  my  heart  answered  secretly  —  my  own  ! 

One  more  then,  one  more  strain, 

In  links  of  joy  and  pain 
Mighty  the  troubled  spirit  to  inthral ! 

And  let  me  breathe  my  dower 

Of  passion  and  of  power 
Full  into  that  deep  lay  —  the  last  of  all ! 

The  last !  — and  I  must  go 

From  this  bright  world  below. 
This  realm  of  sunshine,  ringing  with  sweet  sound  ! 

Must  leave  its  festal  skies, 

With  all  their  melodies. 
That  ever  in  my  breast  glad  echoes  found. 

Yet  have  I  known  it  long 

Too  restless  and  too  strong 
Within  this  clay  hath  been  th'  o'ermastering  flame ; 

Swift  thoughts,  that  came  and  went, 

Like  torrents  o'er  me  sent, 
Have  shaken,  as  a  reed,  my  thrilling  frame. 

Like  perfumes  on  the  wind, 

Which  none  may  stay  or  bind. 
The  beautiful  comes  floating  through  my  soul ; 

I  strive  with  yearnings  vain, 

The  spirit  to  detain 
Of  the  deep  harmonies  that  past  me  roll ! 

Therefore  disturbing  dreams 
Trouble  the  secret  streams 
And  founts  of  music  that  o'erflow  my  breast; 


400  FELICIA    HEMANS. 


Something  far  more  divine 
Than  may  on  earth  be  mine, 
Haunts  my  worn  heart,  and  will  not  let  me  rest. 

Shall  I  then  year  the  tone 

That  breathes  from  worlds  unknown  ?  — 
Surely  these  feverish  aspirations  there 

Shall  grasp  their  full  desire. 

And  this  unsettled  lire 
Burn  calmly,  brightly,  in  immortal  air. 

One  more  then,  one  more  strain. 

To  earthly  joy  and  pain 
A  rich,  and  deep,  and  passionate  farewell ! 

I  pour  each  fervent  thought 

With  fear,  hope,  trembling  fraught. 
Into  the  notes  that  o'er  my  dust  shall  swell. 


THE    HOUR    OF    DEATH. 


Leaves  have  their  time  to  fall. 
And  flowers  to  wither  at  the  north-wind's  breath, 

And  stars  to  set  —  but  all, 
Thou  hast  all  seasons  for  thine  own,  oh !   Death. 

Day  is  for  mortal  care, 
Eve  for  glad  meetings  round  the  joyous  hearth, 

Night  for  the  dreams  of  sleep,  the  voice  of  prayer  — 
But  all  for  thee,  thou  Mightiest  of  the  earth. 

The  banquet  hath  its  hour, 
Its  feverish  hour  of  mirth,  and  sonar,  and  wine  ; 

There  comes  a  day  for  grief's  o'erwhelming  power, 
A  time  for  softer  tears  — but  all  are  thine. 


Youth  and  the  opening  rose 
May  look  like  things  too  glorious  for  decay, 

And  smile  at  thee  —  but  thou  art  not  of  those 
That  wait  the  ripened  bloom  to  seize  their  prey. 

Leaves  have  their  time  to  fall, 
And  flowers  to  wither  at  the  north-wind's  breath. 

And  stars  to  set  —  but  all, 
Thou  hast  all  seasons  for  thine  own,  oh !  Death. 

We  know  when  moons  shall  wane, 
When  summer-birds  from  far  shall  cross  the  sea. 

When  autumn's  hue  shall  tinge  the  golden  grain - 
But  who  shall  teach  us  when  to  look  for  thee  ? 

Is  it  when  Spring's  first  gale 
Comes  forth  to  whisper  where  the  violets  lie  ? 

Is  it  when  roses  in  our  paths  grow  pale?  — 
They  have  one  season  —  all  are  ours  to  die  ! 

Thou  art  where  billows  foam, 
Thou  art  where  music  melts  upon  the  air ; 

Thou  art  around  us  in  our  peaceful  home. 
And  the  world  calls  us  forth  —  and  thou  art  there. 

Thou  art  where  friend  meets  friend. 
Beneath  the  shadow  of  the  elm  to  rest  — 

Thou  art  where  foe  meets  foe  and  trumpets  rend 
The  skies,  and  swords  beat  down  the  princely  crest. 

Leaves  have  their  time  to  fall. 
And  flowers  to  wither  at  the  north-wind's  breath, 

And  stars  to  set  —  but  all, 
Thou  hast  all  seasons  for  thine  own,  oh,  Death  ! 

51  KK* 


402  FELICIA  HEMANS. 


THE    ADOPTED    CHILD. 

"  Why  wouldst  thou  leave  me,  oh  !  gentle  child  ? 
Thy  home  on  the  mountain  is  bleak  and  wild, 
A  straw-roofed  cabin  with  lowly  wall  — 
Mine  is  a  fair  and  pillared  hall. 
Where  many  an  image  of  marble  gleams, 
And  the  sunshine  of  picture  for  ever  streams." 

"  Oh  !  green  is  the  turf  where  my  brothers  play, 
Through  the  long  bright  hours  of  the  summer-day, 
They  find  the  red  cup-moss  where  they  climb, 
And  they  chase  the  bee  o'er  the  scented  thyme  ; 
And  the  rocks  where  the  heath-flowerblooms  they  know 
Lady,  kind  lady,  oh  !  let  me  go." 

"  Content  thee,  boy  !  in  my  bower  to  dwell. 
Here  are  sweet  sounds  which  thou  lovest  well ; 
Flutes  on  the  air  in  the  stilly  noon, 
Harps  which  the  wandering  breezes  tune  ; 
And  the  silvery  wood-note  of  many  a  bird 
Whose  voice  was  ne'er  in  thy  mountains  heard." 

«'  My  mother  sings,  at  the  twilight's  fall, 
A  song  of  the  hills  far  more  sweet  than  all ; 
She  sings  it  under  our  own  green  tree, 
To  the  babe  half  slumbering  on  her  knee  ; 
I  dreamt  last  night  of  that  music  low  — 
Lady,  kind  lady,  oh  !  let  me  go." 

"  Thy  mother  is  gone  from  her  cares  to  rest, 
She  hath  taken  the  babe  on  her  quiet  breast ; 
Thou  wouldst  meet  her  footstep,  my  boy,  no  more, 
Nor  hear  her  song  at  the  cabin  door. 
—  Come  thou  with  me  to  the  vineyards  nigh, 
And  we  '11  pluck  the  grapes  of  the  richest  dye." 


FELICIA   HEMANS.  403 


'Is  my  mother  gone  from  her  home  away? 

But  I  know  that  my  brothers  are  there  at  play. 

I  know  they  are  gathering  the  fox-glove's  bell, 

Or  the  long  fern-leaves  by  the  sparkling  well, 

Or  they  launch  their  boats  where  the  bright  streams  flow- 

Lady,  kind  lady,  oh!  let  me  go." 

"  Fair  child  !   thy  brothers  are  wanderers  now, 
They  sport  no  more  on  the  mountain's  brow. 
They  have  left  the  fern  by  the  spring's  green  side. 
And  the  streams  where  the  fairy  barks  were  tried. 

—  Be  thou  at  peace  in  thy  brighter  lot, 
For  thy  cabin-home  is  a  lonely  spot." 

">  Are  they  gone,  all  gone  from  the  sunny  hill  ? 

—  But  the  bird  and  the  blue-fly  rove  o'er  it  still, 
And  the  red-deer  bound  in  their  gladness  free. 
And  the  turf  is  bent  by  the  singing  bee. 

And  the  waters  leap,  and  the  fresh  winds  blow  — 
Lady,  kind  lady,  oh !  let  me  go." 


404  MRS.   TONNA. 


CHARLOTTE  ELIZABETH,  (MRS.  TONNA.) 

This  celebrated  wornun,  who  for  the  ability,  variety,  and  extent 
of  her  literary  labours  may  be  classed  with  Hannah  More,  was  the 
daughter  of  an  Episcopal  clergyman  in  Norwich,  and  at  an  early  age 
was  married  to  Captain  Phelan,  an  officer  of  the  British  army, 
wiih  whom  she  went  to  Nova  Scotia,  where  she  resided  several 
years.  She  subsequently  passed  some  time  in  Ireland,  and  her 
husband  being  again  ordered  abroad,  she  refused  to  accompany 
him,  and  turned  her  attention  to  literature  as  a  means  of  support. 
Her  principal  Prose  Works  are  Berry,  a  Tale  of  the  Revolution  ; 
The  Rockite  ;  Letters  from  Ireland;  JudaKs  Sion  ;  Tlie  Flower 
Garden  ;  Falsehood  and  Truth  ;  The  Wrongs  of  Women  ;  The 
Deserter;  Combination  ;  Principalities  and  Powers  in  Heaven- 
ly Places  ;  Judaea  Capta ;  The  Church  Visible  in  all  Ages; 
Perseverance;  and  Personal  Recollections  ;  giving,  in  thelast,an 
account  of  her  own  history,  down  to  the  year  1840.  Her  long- 
est Poem,  containing  about  three  thousand  lines,  is  entitled  Osric, 
a  Missionary  Tale;  besides  which  a  volume  of  her  Miscellane- 
ous Poems  has  recently  been  published.  Captain  Phelan  died 
in  1837;  in  1841  she  became  the  wife  of  Mr.  Lucius  H.  J.  Ton- 
na,  of  London;  and  she  died  on  the  12th  of  July,  1846.  She 
was  for  years  afflicted  with  deafness,  and  those  who  conversed 
with  her  did  so  by  signs,  as  with  the  deaf  and  dumb. 

TO    A    HORSE. 

( Written    in    America.') 

I  know  by  the  ardour  thou  canst   not  restrain, 
By  the  curve  of  thy  nock  and  the  toss  of  thy  mane^ 
By  the  foam  of  thy  snorting  which  spangles  my  brow, 
The  fire  of  the  Arab  is  hot  in  thee  now. 


MRS.   TONNA.  405 


'T  were  harsh  to  control  thee,  my  frolicksome  steed, 

I  give  thee  the  rein  —  so  away  at  thy  speed  ; 

Thy  rider  will  dare  to  be  wilful  as  thee, 

Laugh  the  future  to  scorn,  and  partake  in  thy  glee. 

Away  to  the  mountain  — what  need  we  to  fear  ? 

Pursuit  cannot  press  on  my  Fairy's  career. 

Full  light  were  the  heel  and  well  balanced  the  head 

That  ventured  to  follow  the  track  of  thy  tread  ; 

Where  roars  the  loud  torrent,  and  starts  the  rude  plank, 

And  thunders  the  rock-severed  mass  down  the  bank. 

While  mirror'd  in  chrystal  the  far-shooting  glow. 

With  dazzling  effulgence  is  sparkling  below. 

One  start,  and  I  die  ;  yet  in  peace  I  recline. 

My  bosom  can  rest  on  the  fealty  of  thine  ; 

Thou  lov'st  me,  my  sweet  one,  and  would'st  not  be  free 

From  a  yoke  that  has  never  borne  rudely  on  thee. 

Ah,  pleasant  the  empire  of  those  to  confess. 

Whose  wrath  is  a  whisper,  their  rule  a  caress. 

Behold  how  thy  playmate  is  stretching  beside. 
As  loth  to  be  vanquish' d  in  love  or  in  pride. 
While  upward  he  glances  his  eye-ball  of  jet. 
Half  dreading  thy  fleetness  may  distance  him  yet. 
Ah  Marco,  poor  Marco  —  our  pastime  to-day 
Were  reft  of  one  pleasure  if  he  were  away. 

How  precious  these  moments  ?  fair  Freedom  expands 
Her  pinions  of  light  o'er  the  desolate  lands  : 
The  waters  are  flashing  as  bright  as  thine  eye, 
Unchain'd  as  thy  motion  the  breezes  swept  by  ; 
Delicious  they  come,  o'er  the  flower-scented  earth. 
Like  whispers  of  love  from  the  isle  of  my  birth  ; 
While  the  white  bosom'd  Cistus  her  perfume  exhales. 
And  sighs  out  a  spicy  farewell  to  the  gales. 
Unfeared  and  unfearing  we  '11  traverse  the  wood. 
Where  pours  the  rude  torrent  the  turbulent  flood  : 
The  forest's  red  children  will  smile  as  we  scour 
By  the  log-fashion'd  hut  and  the  pine-woven  bower ; 


406  MRS.    TONNA. 


The  feathery  footsteps  scarce  bending  the  grass, 
Or  denting  the  dew-spangled  moss  where  we  pass. 

What  startles  thee  ?     'T  was  but  the  sentinel  gun 

Flashed  a  vesper  salute  to  thy  rival  the  sun  : 

He  has  closed  his  swift  progress  before  thee,  and  sweeps 

With  fetlock  of  gold,  the  last  verge  of  the  steeps. 

The  fire-fly  anon  from  his  covert  shall  glide, 

And  dark  fall  the  shadows  of  eve  on  the  tide. 

Tread  sofdy — my  spirit  is  joyous  no  more, 

A  northern  aurora,  it  shone  and  is  o'er ; 

The  tears  will  fall  fast  as  I  gather  the  rein, 

And  a  long  look  reverts  to  yon  shadowy  plain. 


A    NIGHT    STORM   AT    SEA. 

Frrnn  "  Osric." 


'T  is  eve  :  —  ascending  high,  the  ocean  storm 
Spreads  in  dark  volume  his  portentous  form  ; 
His  hollow  breezes,  bursting  from  the  clouds. 
Distend  the  sail,  and  whistle  through  the  shrouds. 
Roused  by  the  note  of  elemental  strife, 
The  swelling  waters  tremble  into  life  ; 
Lo  !  through  the  tumult  of  the  dashing  spray 
The  storm  beat  vessel  labours  on  her  way. 
With  bending  mast,  rent  sail,  and  straining  sides, 
High  on  the  foaming  precipice  she  rides. 
Then  reeling  onward  with  descending  prow, 
In  giddy  sweep,  glides  to  the  gulf  below : 
Her  fragile  form  conflicting  billows  rock, 
Her  timbers  echo  to  the  frequent  shock. 
While  bursting  o'er  the  deck,  each  roaring  wave 
Bears  some  new  victim  to  a  hideous  grave. 
The  voice  of  thunder  rides  upon  the  blast, 
And  the  blue  death-fire  plays  around  the  mast : 


MRS.  TONNA.  407 


Beneath  the  pennon  of  a  riven  sail, 
That  vessel  drives,  abandoned  to  the  gale. 
Above,  more  darkly  frowns  the  brow  of  night, 
Beneath,  the  waters  glow  more  fiercely  bright ; 
Ploughing  a  track  of  mingled  foam  and  fire, 
Fast  flies  the  ship  before  the  tempest's  ire, 
While  reeling  to  and  fro  the  hapless  crew 
Gaze  on  the  wild  abyss,  and  shudder  at  the  view. 


THE    MILLENIUM. 

When  from  scattered  lands  afar 
Speeds  the  voice  of  rumoured  war, 
Nations  in  conflicting  pride 
Heaved  like  Ocean's  stormy  tide, 
When  the  solar  splendours  fail. 
And  the  crescent  waxeth  pale, 
And  the  powers  that  star-like  reign 
Sink  dishonoured  to  the  plain, 
World,  do  thou  the  signal  dread. 
We  exalt  the  drooping  head. 
We  uplift  the  expectant  eye  — 
Our  redemption  draweth  nigh. 
When  the  fig-tree  shoots  appear. 
Men  proclaim  their  summer  near  ; 
When  the  hearts  of  rebels  fail. 
We  the  coming  Saviour  hail ; 
Bridegroom  of  the  weeping  spouse. 
Listen  to  her  longing  vows  — 
Listen  to  her  widow'd  moan, 
Listen  to  creation's  groan  ! 
Bid,  oh  bid,  the  trumpet  sound. 
Gather  thine  elect  around ; 
Gird  with  saints  thy  flaming  car. 
Gather  them  from  climes  afar, 


408  MRS.    TONNA. 


Call  them  from  life's  cheerless  gloom, 
Call  them  from  the  marble  tomb, 
From  the  grass-grown  village  grave, 
From  the  deep  dissolving  wave, 
From  the  whirlwind  and  the  flame. 
Mighty  Head  !  thy  members  claim  ! 

Where  are  those  whose  fierce  disdain 
Scorn'd  Messiah's  gentle  reign  ? 
Lo,  in  seas  of  sulph'rous  fire, 
Now  they  taste  his  tardy  ire, 
Prison'd  till  th'  appointed  day 
When  this  world  shall  pass  away. 

Quelled  are  all  thy  foes,  O  Lord, 
Sheath  again  the  victor  sword. 
Where  thy  cross  of  anguish  stood. 
Where  thy  life  distilled  in  blood, 
Where  they  mocked  thy  dying  groan. 
King  of  nations,  plant  thy  throne. 
Send  the  law  from  Zion  forth. 
Over  all  the  willing  earth  : 
Earth,  whose  Sabbath  beauties  rise 
Crowned  with  more  than  paradise. 

Sacred  be  the  opposing  veil ! 
Mortal  sense  and  sight  must  fail. 
Yet  the  day,  the  hour  is  nigh. 
We  shall  see  thee  eye  to  eye. 
Be  our  souls  in  peace  possest 
While  M'e  seek  the  promised  rest. 
And  from  every  heart  and  home 
Breathe  the  prayer,  Lord  Jesus  come! 
Haste  to  set  thy  people  free  ; 
Come  ;  creation  groans  for  thee  ! 


THE   HONOURABLE   MRS.   NORTON.  409 


THE    HONOURABLE    MRS.  NORTON. 

Amongst  the  Poetesses  of  our  land  Mrs.  Norton  certainly 
claims  a  most  distinguished  place.  Not  a  few  critics,  indeed, 
assign  her  the  very  first.  And  I  think  it  would  be  difficult  to 
disprove  her  right  to  a  position  with  the  loftiest.  It  is  most 
assuredly  not  my  intention  to  attempt  such  a  demonstration ;  for 
if  I  do  not  agree  unreservedly  with  the  assertion  of  her  superiority 
over  all,  I  at  all  events  am  prepared  to  maintain  her  equality 
with  any  of,  her  sister  poets.  I  will  go  further,  and  avow  my 
belief  that,  under  other  and  more  favourable  circumstances,  Mrs. 
Norton  might  have  gained  even  greater  fame  than  she  has  yet 
achieved.  Just  as  some  paintings  give  one  the  idea  that  the 
artist  has  power  to  produce  works  of  higher  merit,  so  do  Mrs. 
Norton's  poems  suggest  the  possession  of  latent  genius  far 
transcending  that  which  is  displayed  in  them. 

But  we  must  speak  of  her  as  she  is. 

The  Quarterly  Review,  in  a  criticism  of  Mrs.  Norton's  writings, 
says  of  her  —  that  "  she  is  the  Byron  of  our  modern  poetesses. 
She  has  very  much  of  that  intense  personal  passion  by  which 
Byron's  poetry  is  distinguished  from  the  larger  grasp  and  deeper 
communion  with  man  and  nature  of  Wordsworth.  She  has  also 
Byron's  beautiful  intervals  of  tenderness,  his  strong  practical 
thouo-ht,  and  his  forceful  expression.  It  is  not  an  artificial  imi- 
tation, but  a  natural  parallel."  I  think  we  cannot  safely  adopt 
this  opinion  without  some  little  qualification.  That  Mrs.  Norton 
has  a  fervour,  a  tenderness,  and  a  force  of  expression  which 
greatly  resemble  Byron's,  there  cannot  be  a  doubt :  but  there  all 
similarity  ceases.  Byron  is  the  personification  of  passionate 
selfishness :  his  range  of  sympathy  is  extremely  small :  Mrs. 
Norton,  on  the  other  hand,  has  a  large  and  generous  heart,  essen- 
tially unselfish  in  its  feelings,  and  universal  in  its  sympathies. 
Byron  has  a  sneering,  mockmg,  disbelieving  spirit:  Mrs.  Norton 
52 


410  THE   HONOURABLE   MRS.   NORTON. 

a  simple,  beautiful,  childlike  implicitness  of  soul.  Byron's  strains 
resemble  the  vast,  roaring,  wilful  Waterfall,  rushing  headlong  over 
desolate  rocks,  with  a  sound  like  the  wail  of  a  lost  spirit :  Mrs. 
Norton's,  the  soft  full-flowing  River,  margined  with  flowers,  and 
uttering  sweet  music.  What  is  there  in  Byron  that  resembles 
this :  — 

THE    mother's    heart. 

When  first  thou  camest,  gentle,  shy,  and  fond. 
My  eldest  born,  first  hope,  and  dearest  treasure, 

My  heart  received  thee  with  a  joy  beyond 
All  that  it  yet  had  felt  of  earthly  pleasure  ; 

Nor  thought  that  any  love  again  might  be 

So  deep  and  strong  as  that  I  felt  for  thee. 

Faithful  and  true,  with  sense  beyond  thy  years, 

And  natural  piety  that  lean'd  to  heaven  ; 
Wrung  by  a  harsh  word  suddenly  to  tears. 

Yet  patient  of  rebuke  when  justly  given  — 
Obedient,  easy  to  be  reconciled, 
And  meekly  cheerful  —  such  wert  thou,  my  child  ! 

Not  willing  to  be  left :  still  by  my  side 

Haunting  my  walks,  while  summer-day  was  dying ; 

Nor  leaving  in  thy  turn  ;  but  pleas'd  to  glide 

Through  the  dark  room,  where  I  was  sadly  lying ; 

Or  by  the  couch  of  pain,  a  sitter  meek, 

Watch  the  dim  eye,  and  kiss  the  feverish  cheek. 

O  boy  !  of  such  as  thou  are  oftenest  made 
Earth's  fragile  idols  ;  like  a  tender  flower, 

No  strength  in  all  thy  freshness  —  prone  to  fade  — 
And  bending  weakly  to  the  thunder-shower  — 

Still  round  the  loved,  thy  heart  found  force  to  bind, 

And  clung  like  woodbine  shaken  in  the  wind. 

Her  passionate  poems  display  a  radical  difference  from  those 
of  Byron.     Byron  is,  even  in  his  purest  moments,  sensual  and 


THE  HONOURABLE  MRS.  NORTON.         411 

earthly;  Mrs.  Norton  is  invariably  serene  and  spiritual.  Byron's 
passion  is  like  a  lightning  flash.  Mrs.  Norton's  like  a  sunbeam. 
I  would  refer  the  reader  to  her  exquisite  poem  of  "  Sappho,"  in 
illustration.  I  deeply  regret  that  I  am  not  permitted  to  present 
the  lines  themselves. 

Mrs.  Norton  has  a  truer  moral  vision  than  Byron  had  :  no 
where  in  Byron  can  be  found  a  philosophical  truth  so  calmly  and 
justly  asserted  as  in  the  following  beautiful  comparison  of  wo- 
man's endurance  with  man's  :  — 

Warriors  and  statesmen  have  their  meed  of  praise, 

And  what  they  do,  or  suffer,  men  record  ; 
But  the  long  sacrifice  of  woman'' s  days 

Passes  without  a  thought,  without  a  word  ; 
And  many  a  lofty  struggle  for  the  sake 

Of  duties  sternly,  faithfully  fulfill'd  — 
For  which  the  anxious  mind  must  watch  and  wake, 
And  the  strong  feelings  of  the  heart  be  still'd  — 
Goes  by  unheeded  as  the  summer  wind. 
And  leaves  no  memory  and  no  trace  behind ! 
Yet  it  may  be,  more  lofty  courage  dwells 

In  one  meek  heart  which  braves  an  adverse  fate. 
Than  his  whose  ardent  soul  indignant  swells 

Warm'd  by  the  figlit,  or  cheer'd  through  high  debate  : 
The  soldier  dies  surrounded  :  could  he  live 
Alone  to  suffer,  and  alone  to  strive  ? 

A  fine  proof  of  Mrs.  Norton's  wide  range  of  sympathy  is  to 
be  found  in  the  poem  descriptive  of  an  Arab's  farewell  to  his 
Horse.  The  enthusiastic  regard  which  it  is  well  known  the  Arab 
always  entertains  for  his  steed  finds  a  most  eloquent  expositor  in 
our  author.  The  feeling  is  a  beautiful  one,  and  it  is  beautifully 
rendered. 

THE  Arab's  farewell  to  his  steed. 

My  beauiiful !  my  beautiful !  that  standest  meekly  by. 

With  thy  proudly  arch'd  and  glossy  neck,  thy  dark  and  fiery  eye  — 


412        THE  HONOURABLE  MRS.  NORTON. 


Fret  not  to  roam  the  desert  now  with  all  thy  winged  speed, 
I  may  not  mount  on  thee  again,  thou'rt  sold,  my  Arab  steed  ! 
Fret  not  with  that  impatient  hoof,  snuff  not  the  breezy  wind, 
The  farther  that  thou  fliest  now,  so  far  am  I  behind. 
The  stranger  hath  thy  bridle-rein,  thy  master  hath  his  gold. 
Fleet  limbed    and   beautiful,  farewell!    thou'rt    sold,  my    steed, 
thou  'rt  sold ! 

Farewell !  those  free  untired  limbs  full  many  a  mile  must  roam. 
To  reach  the  chill  and  wintry  sky  which  clouds  the  stranger's 

home  ; 
Some  other  hand,  less  fond,  must  now  thy  corn  and  bread  prepare, 
Thy  silky  mane,  I  braided  once,  must  be  another's  care. 
The  morning  sun  shall  dawn  again,  but  never  more  with  thee 
Shall  I  gallop  through  the  desert  paths  where  we  were  wont  to  be. 
Evening  shall  darken  on  the  earth,  and  o'er  the  sandy  plain 
Some  other  steed,  with  slower  step,  shall  bear  me  home  again. 

Yes  !  thou  must  go !  the  wild  free  breeze,  the  brilliant  sun  and  sky, 
Thy  master's  house,  from  all  of  these  my  exil'd  one  must  fly. 
Thy  proud  dark  eye  will  grow  less  proud,  thy  step  become  less 

fleet, 
And  vainly  shalt  thou  arch  thy  neck  thy  master's  hand  to  meet. 
Only  in  sleep  shall  I  behold  that  dark  eye  glancing  bright; 
Only  in  sleep  shall  hear  again  that  step  so  firm  and  light ; 
And  when  I  raise  my  dreaming  arm  to  check  or  cheer  thy  speed. 
Then  must  I,  starting,  wake  to  feel  thou  'rt  sold,  my  Arab  steed ! 

Ah,  rudely  then,  unseen  by  me,  some  cruel  hand  may  chide. 
Till  foam-wreaths  lie,  like  crested  waves,  along  thy  panting  side; 
And  the  rich  blood  that 's  in  thee  swells  in  thy  indignant  pain. 
Till  careless  eyes  which  rest  on  thee,  may  count  each   starting 

vein. 
Will  they  ill-use  thee  ?     If  I  thought  —  but  no,  it  cannot  be  — 
Thou  art  so  swift,  yet  easy  curb'd,  so  gentle  yet  so  free. 
And  yet  if  haply  when  thou  'rt  gone,  my  lonely  heart  should  yearn, 
Can  the  same  hand  which  casts  thee  off  command  thee  to  return? 


Return  ?  Alas,  my  Arab  steed,  what  shall  thy  master  do, 

When  thou,  who  wert  his  all  of  joy,  hast  vanish'd  from  his  view? 

When    the    dim    distance    cheats    mine    eye,    and    through   the 

gathering  tears, 
rhy  bright  form  for  a  moment  like  the  false  mirage  appears. 
Slow  and  unmounted  will  I  roam  with  weary  foot  alone. 
Where   with   fleet  step  and  joyous  bound  thou  oft  hast  borne 

me  on : 
And    sitting   down    by    that   green    well,  will  pause   and   sadly 

think, 
'T  was   here  he  bow'd  his  glossy  neck,  when  last  I  saw  him 

drink. 

Ulien  last  I  saw  him  drink!    Away  !  the  fever'd  dream  is  o'er; 
I  could  not  live  a  day,  and  know  that  we  should  meet  no  more ; 
They  tempted  me,  my  beautiful !  for  hunger's  power  is  strong, 
They  tempted  me,  my  beautiful !  but  I  have  lov'd  too  long; 
Who  said  that  I  had  given  thee  up  ?     Who  said  that  thou  wert 

sold  ? 
'T  is  false,  't  is  false !  my  Arab  steed  !     I  fling  them  back  their 

gold. 
Thus,  thus,  I  leap  upon  thy  back,  and  scour  the  distant  plains, — 
j^way  !  —  Who  overtakes  us  now  shall  claim  thee  for  his  pains  ! 


Of  Mrs.  Norton's  impassioned  verses  none  perhaps  excel  the 
lines  addressed  by  her  To  the  Duchess  of  Sutherland,  when  that 
noble  lady  remained  steadfastly  her  friend  under  the  most  dis- 
couraging circumstances.  Noble  was  the  friendship,  and  noble 
is  the  monument  erected  to  it. 


Once  more,  my  harp !  once  more,  although  I  thought 
Never  to  wake  thy  silent  strings  again  ; 

A  wandering  dream  thy  gentle  chords  have  wrought, 
And  my  sad  heart,  which  long  hath  dwelt  in  pain, 

Soars  like  a  wild  bird  from  a  cypress  bough. 

Into  the  poet's  heaven,  and  leaves  dull  grief  below  ! 

n* 


414  THE    HONOURABLE   MRS.   NORTON. 


And  unto  thee,  the  beautiful  and  pure, 

Whose  lot  is  cast  amid  that  busy  world 
Where  only  sluggish  Dulness  dwells  secure. 

And  Fancy's  generous  wing  is  faintly  furl'd  ; 
To  thee  —  whose  friendship  kept  its  equal  truth 
Through  the  most  dreary  hour  of  my  embitter'd  youth  — 

I  dedicate  the  lay.     Ah  !  never  bard, 

In  days  when  Poverty  was  twin  with  Song ; 
Nor  wandering  harper,  lonely  and  ill-starr'd, 

Cheer'd  by  some  castle's  chief,  and  harbour'd  long ; 
Nor  Scott's  Last  Minstrel,  in  his  trembling  lays, 
Woke  with  a  warmer  heart  the  earnest  meed  of  praise  ! 

For  easy  are  the  alms  the  rich  man  spares 

To  sons  of  Genius,  by  misfortune  bent; 
But  thou  gav'st  me,  what  woman  seldom  dares, 

Belief — in  spite  of  many  a  cold  dissent  — 
When  slander'd  and  malign'd,  I  stood  apart 
From  those  whose  bounded  power  hath  wrung,  not  crush'd,  my 
heart. 

Thou,  then,  when  cowards  lied  away  my  name 

And  scoff 'd  to  see  me  feebly  stem  the  tide ; 
W^hen  some  were  kind  on  whom  I  had  no  claim, 

And  some  forsook  on  whom  my  love  relied, 
And  some  who  might  have  battled  for  my  sake. 
Stood  off  in  doubt  to  see  what  turn  the  world  would  take  — 

Thou  gav'st  me  that  the  poor  do  give  the  poor, 

Kind  words  and  holy  wishes  and  true  tears ; 
The  lov'd,  the  near  of  kin  could  do  no  more. 

Who  chang'd  not  with  the  gloom  of  varying  years, 
But  clung  the  closer  when  I  stood  forlorn, 
And  blunted  Slander's  dart  with  their  indignant  scorn. 

For  they  who  credit  crime,  are  they  who  feel 
Their  own  hearts  weak  to  unresisted  sin  ; 


Memory,  not  judgment,  prompts  the  thoughts  which  steal 

O'er  minds  like  these,  an  easy  faith  to  win  ; 
And  tales  of  broken  truth  are  still  believed 
Most  readily  by  those  who  have  themselves  deceived. 

But  like  a  white  swan  down  a  troubled  stream, 

Whose  ruffling  pinion  hath  the  power  to  fling 
Aside  the  turbid  drops  which  darkly  gleam 

And  mar  the  freshness  of  her  snowy  wing, — 
So  thou,  with  queenly  grace  and  gentle  pride, 
Along  the  world's  dark  waves  in  purity  dost  glide. 

Thy  pale  and  pearly  cheek  was  never  made 

To  crimson  with  a  faint  false-hearted  shame  ; 
Thou  didst  not  shrink  —  of  bitter  tongues  afraid, 

Who  hunt  in  packs  the  object  of  their  blame ;  * 

To  thee  the  sad  denial  still  held  true, 
For  from  thine  own  good  thoughts  thy  heart  its  mercy  drew. 

And  though  my  faint  and  tributary  rhymes 

Add  nothing  to  the  glory  of  thy  day, 
Yet  every  poet  hopes  that  after-times 

Shall  set  some  value  on  his  votive  lay  ; 
And  I  would  fain  one  gentle  deed  record. 
Among  the  many  such  with  which  thy  life  is  stored. 

In  conclusion  I  would  say  of  Mrs.  Norton  that  with  a  conside- 
rable similarity  to  Byron  in  manner,  she  is  essentially  unlike  him 
in  spirit :  that  whereas  his  imagination  is  daring  and  vigorous, 
hers  is  timid  and  gentle  :  that  whereas  his  passion  is  selfish  and 
infatuating,  hers  is  mild  and  tender  and  pervading :  that  whereas 
he  scoffs  and  sneers  at  the  best  and  happiest  ties  of  life,  she  does 
her  most  to  strengthen  and  extend  their  influence  :  and  that  while 
he  with  a  proud  scepticism  flings  from  him  the  consolations  and 
delights  of  religion,  she  clasps  them  closely  to  her  heart,  and  finds 
m  them  a  balm  for  the  bitterest  wounds  of  her  spirit. 


416  THE   HONOURABLE   MRS.   NORTON. 


THE    VISIONARY    PORTRAIT. 
I. 

As  by  his  lonely  hearth  he  sate, 
The  shadow  of  a  welcome  dream 

Passed  o'er  his  heart, —  disconsolate 
His  home  did  seem  ; 

Comfort  in  vain  was  spread  around. 

For  something  still  was  wanting  found. 


Therefore  he  thought  of  one  who  might 
For  ever  in  his  presence  stay ; 

Whose  dream  should  be  of  him  by  night, 
Whose  smile  should  be  for  him  by  day  ; 

And  the  sweet  vision,  vague  and  far. 

Rose  on  his  fancy  like  a  star. 


"Let  her  be  young,  yet  not  a  child. 
Whose  light  and  inexperienced  mirth 

Is  all  too  winged  and  too  wild 
For  sober  earth,  — 

Too  rainbow-like  such  mirth  appears, 
And  fades  away  in  misty  tears. 

IV. 

"  Let  youth's  fresh  rose  still  gently  bloom 
Upon  her  smooth  and  downy  cheek, 

Yet  let  a  shadow,  not  of  gloom. 
But  soft  and  meek, 

Tell  that  some  sorrow  she  hath  known. 

Though  not  a  sorrow  of  her  own. 


■  And  let  her  eyes  be  of  the  grey, 
The  soft  grey  of  the  brooding  dove, 


Full  of  the  sweet  and  tender  ray 

Of  modest  love ; 
For  fonder  shows  that  dreamy  hue 
Than  lustrous  black  or  heavenly  blue. 


"  Let  her  be  full  of  quiet  grace, 

No  sparkling  wit  with  sudden  glow 

Bright'ning  her  purely  chisell'd  face 
And  placid  brow ; 

Not  radiant  to  the  stranger's  eye, — 

A  creature  easily  pass'd  by  ; 


"  But  who,  once  seen,  with  untold  power 
For  ever  haunts  the  yearning  heart, 

Raised  from  the  crowd  that  self-same  hour 
To  dwell  apart^ 

All  sainted  and  enshrined  to  be, 

The  idol  of  our  memory  ! 


*'  And  oh  !  let  Mary  be  her  name  — 
It  hath  a  sweet  and  gentle  sound. 

At  which  no  glories  dear  to  fame 
Come  crowding  round, 

But  which  the  dreaming  heart  beguiles 

With  holy  thoughts  and  household  smiles. 

IX. 

"  With  peaceful  meetings,  welcomes  kind, 

And  love,  the  same  in  joy  and  tears. 
And  gushing  intercourse  of  mind 
Through  faithful  years ; 
Oh  !  dream  of  something  half  divine, 
Be  real  —  be  mortal  —  and  be  mine  !" 
53 


418  THE  HONOURABLE  MRS.  NORTON. 


TO    THE    LADY    H.    O. 

I$le  of  Wight,  September,  1839. 
I. 

Come  o'er  the  green  hills  to  the  sunny  sea ! 

The  boundless  sea  that  washeth  many  lands, 
Where  shells  unknown  to  England,  fair  and  free, 

Lie  brightly  scatter'd  on  the  gleaming  sands. 
There,  'midst  the  hush  of  slumbering  ocean's  roar, 

We  '11  sit  and  watch  the  silver-tissued  waves 
Creep  languidly  along  the  basking  shore. 

And  kiss  thy  gentle  feet,  like  Eastern  slaves. 

II. 

And  we  will  take  some  volume  of  our  choice, 

Full  of  quiet  poetry  and  thought, 
And  thou  shalt  read  me,  with  thy  plaintive  voice, 

Lines  which  some  gifted  mind  hath  sweetly  wrought ; 
And  I  will  listen,  gazing  on  thy  face, 

(Pale  as  some  cameo  on  the  Italian  shell !) 
Or  looking  out  across  the  far  blue  space. 

Where  glancing  sails  to  gentle  breezes  swell. 

HI. 

Come  forth !     The  sun  hath  flung  on  Thetis'  breast 

The  glittering  tresses  of  his  golden  hair  ; 
All  things  are  heavy  with  a  noonday  rest, 

And  floating  sea-birds  leave  the  stirless  air. 
Against  the  sky,  in  outlines  clear  and  rude. 

The  cleft  rocks  stand,  while  sunbeams  slant  between; 
And  lulling  winds  are  murmuring  through  the  wood. 

Which  skirts  the  bright  bay  with  its  fringe  of  green. 


Come  forth !     All  motion  is  so  gentle  now. 

It  seems  thy  step  alone  should  walk  the  earth, — 


THE  HONOURABLE  MRS.  NORTON.         419 


Thy  voice  alone,  the  "ever  soft  and  lovir," 
Wake  the  far-haunting  echoes  into  birth. 

Too  wild  would  be  Love's  passionate  store  of  hope, 
Unmeet  the  influence  of  his  changeful  power — 

Ours  be  companionship,  whose  gentle  scope 
Hath  charm  enough  for  such  a  tranquil  hour. 


And  slowly,  idly  wandering,  we  will  roam, 

Where  the  high  cliffs  shall  give  us  ample  shade ; 
And  watch  the  glassy  waves,  whose  wrathful  foam 

Hath  power  to  make  the  seaman's  heart  afraid. 
Seek  thou  no  veil  to  shroud  thy  soft  brown  hair, — 

Wrap  thou  no  mantle  round  thy  graceful  form  ; 
The  cloudless  sky  smiles  forth  as  still  and  fair 

As  though  earth  ne'er  could  know  another  storm. 


Come  !     Let  not  listless  sadness  make  delay, — 

Beneath  Heaven's  light  that  sadness  will  depart ; 
And  as  we  wander  on  our  shoreward  way, 

A  strange,  sweet  peace  shall  enter  in  thine  heart. 
We  will  not  weep,  nor  talk  of  vanish'd  years. 

When,  link  by  link,  Hope's  glittering  chain  was  riven 
Those  who  are  dead,  shall  claim  IVom  love  no  tears, — 

Those  who  have  injured  us,  shall  be  forgiven. 


Few  have  my  summers  been,  and  fewer  thine  ;  — 

Youth  blighted  is  the  weary  lot  of  both  : 
To  both,  all  lonely  shows  our  life's  decline. 

Both  with  old  friends  and  ties  have  waxed  wroth. 
But  yet  we  will  not  weep  !    The  breathless  calm 

Which  lulls  the  golden  earth,  and  wide  blue  sea, 
Shall  pour  into  our  souls  mysterious  balm, 

And  fill  us  with  its  own  tranquillity. 


420  THE  HONOURABLE  MRS.  NORTON. 


VIII. 

We  will  not  mar  the  scene  —  we  will  not  look 

To  the  veil'd  future,  or  the  shadowy  past ; 
Seal'd  up  shall  be  sad  Memory's  open  book, 

And  childhood's  idleness  return  at  last ! 
Joy,  with  his  resdess,  ever-fluttering  wings, 

And  Hope,  his  gentle  brother,  —  all  shall  cease: 
Like  weary  hinds  that  seek  the  desert  springs. 

Our  one  sole  feeling  shall  be  peace  —  deep  peace  ! 


THE    BLIND    MAN  S    BRIDE. 


I. 

When  first,  beloved,  in  vanish'd  hours 

The  blind  man  sought  thy  love  to  gain, 
They  said  thy  cheek  was  bright  as  flowers 

New  freshen'd  by  the  summer  rain  : 
They  said  thy  movements,  swift  yet  soft, 

Were  such  as  make  the  winged  dove 
Seem,  as  it  gently  soars  aloft. 

The  image  of  repose  and  love. 

II. 

They  told  me,  too,  an  eager  crowd 

Of  wooers  praised  thy  beauty  rare, 
But  that  thy  heart  was  all  too  proud 

A  common  love  to  meet  or  share. 
Ah  !  thine  was  neither  pride  nor  scorn, 

But  in  thy  coy  and  virgin  breast 
Dwelt  preference,  not  of  passion  born. 

The  love  that  hath  a  holier  rest ! 


Days  came  and  went  —  thy  step  I  heard  - 
Pause  frequent  as  it  pass'd  me  by  :  — 


THE   HONOURABLE   MRS.   NORTON.  431 

Days  came  and  went ;  —  thy  heart  was  stirr'd, 

And  answer'd  to  my  stifled  sigh  ! 
And  thou  didst  make  a  humble  choice, 

Content  to  be  the  blind  man's  bride. 
Who  loved  thee  for  thy  gentle  voice, 

And  own'd  no  joy  on  earth  beside. 


And  well  by  that  sweet  voice  I  knew 

(Without  the  happiness  of  sight) 
Thy  years,  as  yet,  were  glad  and  few,' 

Thy  smile,  most  innocently  bright : 
I  knew  how  full  of  love's  own  grace 

The  beauty  of  thy  form  must  be  ; 
And  fancy  idolized  the  face 

W^hose  loveliness  I  might  not  see  ! 


Oh  !  happy  were  those  days,  beloved  ! 

I  almost  ceased  for  light  to  pine 
When  through  the  summer  vales  we  roved, 

Thy  fond  hand  gently  link'd  in  mine, 
Thy  soft  "  Good  night"  still  sweetly  cheer'd. 

The  unbroken  darkness  of  my  doom  ; 
And  thy  "  Good  morrow,  love,"  endear'd 

Each  sunrise  thatreturn'd  in  gloom  ! 


At  length,  as  years  roU'd  swiftly  on, 

They  spoke  to  me  of  Time's  decay  — 
Of  roses  from  thy  smooth  cheek  gone, 

And  ebon  ringlets  turn'd  to  grey. 
Ah  !  then  I  bless\l  the  sightless  eyes 

Which  could  not  feel  the  deepening  shade, 
Nor  watch  beneath  succeeding  skies 

Thy  withering  beauty  faintly  fade. 

MM 


422 


THE   HONOURABLE   MRS.   NORTON. 


/  saw  no  paleness  on  thy  cheek, 

No  lines  upon  thy  forehead  smooth, — 
But  still  the  blind  man  heard  thee  speak 

In  accents  made  to  bless  and  soothe  : 
Still  he  could  feel  thy  guiding  hand 

As  through  the  woodlands  wild  we  ranged,- 
Still  in  the  summer  light  could  stand. 

And  know  thy  heart  and  voice  unchanged. 

VIII. 

And  still,  beloved,  till  life  grows  cold, 

We  '11  wander  'neath  a  genial  sky, 
And  only  know  that  we  are  old 

By  counting  happy  years  gone  by  : 
For  thou  to  me  art  still  as  fair 

As  when  those  happy  years  began,^ 
When  first  thou  earnest  to  soothe  and  share 

The  sorrows  of  a  sightless  man  ! 


Old  Time,  who  changes  all  below. 

To  wean  men  gently  for  the  grave. 
Hath  brought  us  no  increase  of  woe, 

And  leaves  us  all  he  ever  gave  : 
For  I  am  still  a  helpless  thing. 

Whose  darken'd  world  is  cheer'd  by  thee  — 
And  thou  art  she  whose  beauty's  spring 

The  blind  man  vainly  yearn'd  to  see  ! 


WEEP    NOT    FOR    HIM    THAT    DIETH. 

='Weep  ye  not  for  the  dead,  neither  bemoan  him;  but  weep  sore  for 
him  that  goeth  away,  for  he  shall  return  no  more,  nor  see  his  native 
country." — Jeremiah  xxii.  10. 


Weep  not  for  him  that  dieth  — 
For  he  sleeps,  and  is  at  rest ; 


THE   HONOURABLE   MRS.  NORTON.  423 


And  the  couch  whereon  he  lieth 
Is  the  green  earth's  quiet  breast: 

But  weep  for  him  who  pineth 
On  a  far  land's  hateful  shore, 

Who  wearily  declineth 

Where  you  see  his  face  no  more ! 

II. 

Weep  not  for  him  that  dieth, 

For  friends  are  round  his  bed, 
And  many  a  young  lipsighelh 

When  they  name  the  early  dead : 
But  weep  for  him  that  liveth 

Where  none  will  know  or  care. 
When  the  groan  his  faint  heart  giveth 

Is  the  last  sigh  of  despair. 

III. 

Weep  not  for  him  that  dieth, 

For  his  struggling  soul  is  free. 
And  the  world  from  which  it  flietli 

Is  a  world  of  misery  ; 
But  weep  for  him  that  weareth 

The  captive's  galling  chain : 
To  the  agony  he  bearelh, 

Death  were  but  little  pain. 


Weep  not  for  him  that  dieth, 

For  he  hath  ceased  from  tears, 
And  a  voice  to  his  replieth 

Which  he  hath  not  heard  for  years  ; 
But  weep  for  him  who  weepeth 

On  that  cold  land's  cruel  shore  — 
Blest,  blest  is  he  that  sleepeth, — 

Weep  for  the  dead  no  more ! 


424  L^TITIA   ELIZABETH  MACLEAN. 


LtETITIA  ELIZABETH   MACLEAN. 

This  remarkable  writer,  better  known  perhaps  as  Miss  Landon, 
or  L.  E.  L.,  may,  I  think,  be  considered  the  Byron  of  our  poet- 
esses. In  character,  history,  and  genius,  there  are  not  a  few 
striking  points  of  similitude  between  her  and  the  great  bard 
referred  to :  both  acquired  a  world-wide  fame  in  youth ;  both 
were  shamefully  maligned  and  misrepresented ;  both  became 
gloomy  and  misanthropical  under  the  falsehoods  asserted  of 
them  ;  both  died  young,  and  abroad. 

Mrs.  Maclean's  history  is  perhaps  the  more  tragic  of  the  two. 
Early  deprived  of  parental  care  and  assistance,  she  had  almost 
from  childhood  to  struggle  with  the  worst  difficulties  of  life ;  and 
none  but  those  who  have  experienced  similar  endurances  can 
understand  how  much  a  young  warm  heart  can  be  chilled  by 
them,  and  changed  for  the  worse.  When  her  circumstances 
became  ameliorated  by  her  success  in  literature,  she  had  to  con- 
tend against  the  worst  evils  of  over-praise,  unjust  censure,  and 
infamous  slander.  Can  we  wonder  that  she  acquired  unhealthy 
views  of  life  ?  Ought  we  not  rather  to  wonder  that  her  senti- 
ments are  on  the  whole  as  sound  as  we  find  them  ?  Oh,  the 
world  is  a  hard  task-master.  It  first  spoils  its  pupil,  and  then 
complains  of  his  deficiencies  !  Finally,  in  the  zenith  of  her  fame, 
Mrs.  Maclean,  formed,  more  than  most  beings,  for  social  inter- 
course, quits  her  country  and  her  friends,  for  a  solitary  home  on 
the  coast  of  Africa :  there  to  pine  in  loneliness  for  a  month  or 
two,  and  then  to  die.     Yes  !  it  is  a  very  mournful  story. 

Of  Mrs.  Maclean's  genius  there  can  be  but  one  opinion.  It 
is  distinguished  by  very  great  intellectutal  power,  a  highly  sensi- 
tive and  ardent  imagination,  an  intense  fervour  of  passionate 
emotion,  and  almost  unequalled  eloquence  and  fluency.  Of  mere 
art  she  displays  but  little.     Her  style  is  irregular  and  careless, 


and  her  painting  sketchy  and  rough  :  but  there  is  genius  in  every 
line  she  has  wriiten. 

Mrs.  Maclean  has  herself  given  us  a  just  portraiture  of  her 
peculiar  powers.  In  the  concluding  lines  of  her  fine  poem 
entitled  The  Golden  Violet,  she  says 

"  If  that  I  knovt^  myself  what  keys 
Yield  to  my  hand  their  sympathies, 
I  should  say  'tis  those  whose  tone 
Is  TVoinan's  Love  and  Sorrow's  01071.'^ 

No  writer  certainly  has  written  more  of  Love  and  Sorrow  than 
Mrs.  Maclean,  She  touches  scarcely  any  other  strings.  I  called 
her  the  female  Byron :  in  this  respect  she  is  particularly  so. 
Passion  and  Sadness  are  the  idols  of  her  pen.     She  herself  says 

"  Sad  were  my  shades  :  methinks  they  had 

Almost  a  tone  of  prophecy  — 
I  ever  had,  from  earliest  youth, 

A  feeling  what  my  fate  would  be." 

Her  love-passages  are  certainly  not  inferior  to  Byron's.  I 
would  cite  the  following  lines  from  The  Improvisatrice  in  proof: 

I  lov'd  him  as  a  young  Genius  loves. 

When  its  own  mild  and  radiant  heaven 
Of  starry  thought  burns  with  the  light. 

The  love,  the  life,  by  passion  given. 
I  loved  him,  too,  as  woman  loves  — 

Reckless  of  sorrow,  sin,  or  scorn  : 
Life  had  no  evil  destiny 

That,  with  him,  I  could  not  have  borne ! 
I  had  been  nurs'd  in  palaces  ; 

Yet  earth  had  not  a  spot  so  drear, 
That  I  should  not  have  thought  a  home 

In  paradise,  had  he  been  near! 
How  sweet  it  would  have  been  to  dwell, 
Apart  from  all,  in  some  green  dell 

54  MM* 


Of  sunny  beauty,  leaves  and  flowers  ; 
And  nestling  birds  to  sing  the  hours ! 
Our  home,  beneath  some  chestnut's  shade 
But  of  the  woven  branches  made  : 
Our  vesper  hymn,  the  low  lone  wail 
The  rose  hears  from  the  nightingale ; 
And  waked  at  morning  by  the  call 
Of  music  from  a  waterfall. 
But  not  alone  in  dreams  like  this, 
Breathed  in  the  very  hope  of  bliss, 
I  loved :  my  love  had  been  the  same 
In  hush'd  despair,  in  open  shame. 
I  would  have  rather  been  a  slave, 

In  tears,  in  bondage  by  his  side, 
Than  shared  in  all,  if  wanting  him. 

This  world  had  power  to  give  beside ! 
My  heart  was  wither'd  —  and  ray  heart 

Had  ever  been  the  world  to  me : 
And  love  had  been  the  first  fond  dream, 

Whose  life  was  in  reality. 
I  had  sprung  from  my  solitude, 

Lilce  a  young  bird  upon  the  wing, 
To  meet  the  arrow  :  so  I  met 

My  poison'd  shaft  of  suffering. 
And  as  that  bird  with  drooping  crest 
And  broken  wing,  will  seek  his  nest, 
But  seek  in  vain  :  so  vain  I  sought 
My  pleasant  home  of  song  and  thought. 
There  was  one  spell  upon  my  brain. 
Upon  my  pencil,  on  my  strain; 
But  one  face  to  my  colours  came ; 
My  chords  replied  to  but  one  name  — 
Lorenzo  !  —  all  seem'd  vow'd  to  thee. 
To  passion,  and  to  misery ! 

That  Mrs.  Maclean  could  paint  Sorrow  as  well  as  she  could 
delineate  Love  wc  have  plenty  of  proof.  Sorrow  seems  indeed 
an  essential  part  of  her  nature.  Persons  who  knew  her  intimately 


LiETITIA   ELIZABETH    MACLEAN.  427 

say  that  she  was  7iot  naturally  sad:  that  she  was  all  gaiety  and 
cheerfulness :  hut  there  is  a  mournfulness  of  soul  which  is  never 
to  be  seen  on  the  cheek  or  in  the  eye  :  and  this  I  believe  to  have 
dwelt  in  Mrs.  Maclean's  breast  more  than  in  most  people's.  How 
otherwise  are  we  to  understand  her  poetry  ?  We  cannot  believe 
her  sadness  to  have  been  put  on  like  a  player's  garb :  to  have  been 
an  affectation,  an  unreality  :  it  is  too  earnest  for  that.  We  must 
suppose  that  she  felt  what  she  wrote  :  and  if  so,  her  written  sad- 
ness was  seal  sadness.  Take  the  following  lines  from  TTie 
Golden  Violet :  no  one  can  believe  that  the  sentiment  they  con- 
tain is  unreal. 

SONG. 

My  heart  is  like  the  failing  hearth 

Now  by  my  side; 
One  by  one  its  bursts  of  flame 

Have  burnt  and  died. 
There  are  none  to  watch  the  sinking  blaze, 

And  none  to  care 
Or  if  it  kindle  into  strength, 

Or  waste  in  air. 
My  fate  is  as  yon  faded  wreath 

Of  summer  flowers : 
They've  spent  their  store  of  fragrant  health 

On  sunny  hours, 
Which  reck'd  them  not,  which  heeded  not 

When  they  were  dead  ; 
Other  flowers,  unwarn'd  by  them 

Will  spring  instead. 
And  my  own  heart  is  as  the  lute 

I  now  am  waking  : 
Wound  to  too  fine  and  high  a  pitch, 

They  both  are  breaking. 
And  of  their  song  what  memory 

Will  stay  behind  ? 
An  echo,  like  a  passing  thought 

Upon  the  wind. 


428 


LiETITIA   ELIZABETH  MACLEAN. 


Silence,  forgetfulness  and  rust. 

Lute,  are  for  thee  ; 
And  such  ray  lot ;  neglect,  the  grave, 

These  are  for  me  ! 

The  same  sad  desolate  tone  pervades  nearly  all  her  composi- 
tions :  but  it  invariably  becomes  intensest  when  she  speaks  of 
herself.  We  always  see  a  shadow  on  her  heart.  The  following 
lines  beautifully  illustrate  this  tendency  : 

Silent  and  dark  is  the  source  of  yon  river, 

Whose  birth-place  we  know  not,  and  seek  not  to  know. 
Though  mild  as  the  flight  of  the  shaft  from  yon  quiver, 

Is  the  course  of  its  waves  as  in  music  they  flow. 

Oh,  my  heart,  and  my  song,  which  is  as  my  heart's  flowing. 
Read  thy  fate  in  yon  river,  for  such  is  thine  own ! 

'Mid  those  the  chief  praise  on  thy  music  bestowing. 
Who  cares  for  the  lips  from  whence  issue  the  tone  ? 

Dark  as  its  birth-place,  so  dark  is  my  spirit, 
Whence  yet  the  sweet  waters  of  melody  come : 

'T  is  the  long  after-course,  not  the  source,  will  inherit 
The  beauty  and  glory  of  sunshine  and  fame. 

And  nothing  seems  able  to  "  make  a  sunshine  in  this  shady 
place."  No  burst  of  cheerfulness  ever  displays  relief.  Amidst 
every  kind  of  scenery  and  circumstance  the  darkness  is  the 
same.  Her  pensiveness  is  her  familiar  spirit.    She  delights  in  it: 

"  Call  it  madness,  call  it  folly. 

You  cannot  drive  her  gloom  away. 
There  's  such  a  charm  in  melanclioly. 

She  would  not  if  she  could  be  gay." 


Sorrow  must  have  been  at  the  core  of  her  heart,  or  she  never 
could  have  written  like  this  : 


L^TITIA   ELIZABETH   MACLEAN.  429 


Farewell,  farewell !  I  'U  dream  no  more, 

'Tis  misery  to  be  dreaming: 
Farewell,  farewell ;  and  I  will  be 

At  least  like  thee  in  seeming. 
I  will  go  forth  to  the  green  vale, 

Where  the  sweet  wild  flowers  are  dwelling, 
Where  the  leaves  and  the  birds  together  sing, 

And  the  woodland  fount  is  welling. 
Not  there,  not  there,  too  much  of  bloom 

Has  Spring  flung  o'er  each  blossom  ; 
The  tranquil  place  too  much  contrasts 

The  unrest  of  my  bosom. 
I  will  go  to  the  lighted  halls. 

Where  midnight  passes  fleetest ; 
Oh,  memory  there  too  much  recalls 

Of  saddest  and  of  sweetest, 
I  '11  turn  me  to  the  gifted  page, 

Where  the  bard  his  soul  is  flinging ; 
Too  well  it  echoes  mine  own  heart 

Breaking  e'en  while  singing. 
I  must  have  rest  !    Oh,  heart  of  mine, 

When  wilt  thou  lose  thy  sorrow  ? 
Never,  till  in  the  quiet  grave  : 

—  Would  I  slept  there  to-morrow  ! 

This  strong  tendency  towards  melancholy  frequently  led  Mrs. 
Maclean  into  most  erroneous  views  and  sentiments  ;  which, 
though  we  may  make  what  excuses  we  will  for  them  out  of  con- 
sideration for  the  author,  should  be  heartily  and  honestly  con- 
demned for  the  sake  of  moral  truth.  For  instance,  when  we  find 
her  saying  — 

Oh,  when  the  grave  shall  open  for  me, — 
(I  care  not  how  soon  that  time  may  be, — ^ 
Never  a  rose  shall  groio  on  that  tomb. 
It  breathes  too  much  of  hope  and  bloom  ; 


430  LiETITIA   ELIZABETH   MACLEAN. 

But  there  be  that  flower's  meek  regret, 
The  bending  and  dark  blue  Violet  — 

when  we  read  such  passages  as  this,  it  is  our  duty  to  speak  in 
terms  of  rebuke  and  repudiation.  There  is  an  evil  spirit  in  such 
sentiments  which  should  be  bidden  behind  us.  Why  should  we 
reject  the  blooming  and  beautiful,  and  cling  after  this  poor  fashion 
to  the  sad  and  sorrowful  ?  It  is  false  philosophy,  we  may  be  sure. 
Violets,  indeed  !  Why,  what  were  roses  made  for  ?  To  be 
slighted  and  contemned  and  despised,  as  it  were,  like  this  ?  Oh, 
no,  no  !  Roses  were  made  to  gladden  and  delight  us,  and  give 
us  ideas  of  beauty  and  hope :  nay,  more  than  this,  to  make  us 
grateful  to  the  Giver  of  all  good  besides. 

Here  is  another  instance  of  our  fair  author's  tendency  to  look 
upon  the  dark  side  of  life.  In  a  little  poem  entitled  Change  she 
thus  writes : 

And  this  is  what  is  left  of  youth ! 

There  were  two  boys,  who  were  bred  up  together. 

Shared  the  same  bed,  and  fed  at  the  same  board.  • 

Each  tried  the  other's  sport,  from  their  first  chase, 

Young  hunters  of  the  butterfly  and  bee. 

To  when  they  followed  the  fleet  hare,  and  tried 

The  swiftness  of  the  bird.     They  lay  beside 

The  silver  trout  stream,  watching  as  the  sun 

Play'-d  on  the  bubbles :  Shared  each  in  the  store 

Of  cither's  garden ;  and  together  read 

Of  him,  the  master  of  the  desert  isle, 

Till  a  low  hut,  a  gun  and  a  canoe 

Bounded  their  wishes.     Or  if  ever  came 

A  thought  of  future  days,  't  was  but  to  say 

That  they  would  share  each  other's  lot,  and  do 

Wonders,  no  doubt.     But  this  was  vain ;  they  parted 

With  promises  of  long  remembrance,  words 

Whose  kindness  was  the  heart's,  and  those  warm  tears. 

Hidden  hke  shame  by  the  young  eyes  that  shed  them. 

But  which  are  thought  upon  in  after  years 

As  what  we  would  give  worlds  to  shed  once  more. 


L.'ETITIA    ELIZABETH   MACLEAN. 


431 


They  met  again, — but  different  from  themselves, — 
At  least  what  each  remembered  of  themselves  : 
The  one  proud  as  a  soldier  of  his  rank, 
And  of  his  many  battles  :  and  the  other 
Proud  of  his  Indian  wealtli,  and  of  the  skill 
And  toil  which  gather'd  it :  each  with  a  brow 
And  heart  alike  darken'd  by  years  and  care. 

They  met  with  cold  words  and  yet  colder  looks ; 

Each  was  chang'd  in  himself,  and  yet  each  thought 

The  other  only  chang'd,  himself  the  same. 

And  coldness  bred  dislike  ;  and  rivalry 

Came  like  the  pestdence  o'er  some  sweet  thoughts 

That  linger'd  yet,  healthy  and  beautiful. 

Amid  dark  and  unkindly  ones.     And  they 

Whose  boyhood  had  not  known  one  jarring  word, 

Were  strangers  in  their  age  :  if  their  eyes  met, 

'T  was  but  to  look  contempt,  and  when  they  spoke, 

Their  speech  was  wormwood! 

— And  this,  this  is  life  ! 

No  !  with  all  due  respect  to  our  fair  poetess,  this  is  not  life. 
Doubtless  there  have  been,  and  are,  and  long  will  be  instances  of 
brethren  who  have  loved  each  other  in  childhood  becoming 
strangers,  almost  haters,  in  manhood  :  but  to  assert  that  life  is 
composed  of  such  cases  is  to  libel  Providence  and  to  dishearten 
man.  Let  the  melancholy  say  what  they  will,  enduring  affection 
is  not  a  fable,  not  a  poet's  dream  :  it  is  a  high  and  a  holy  reality, 
one  of  the  least  deniable  truths  existing  in  the  world :  and  oidy 
an  erring  or  bewildered  soul  can  doubt  it. 

Life  !  —  No  !  Doubt  and  distrust,  change  and  coldness,  these 
are  not  Life  —  they  form  but  the  merest  fraction  of  life.  Life  ! 
—  a  never-ending  rush  of  varied,  new-ci-eated,  unsoiled  moments, 
every  one  of  which  bears  its  freight  of  happiness,  every  one  of 
which  may  be  turned  to  our  enjoyment  if  we  please  ;  countless 
bright  fountains  around  us,  from  which  pleasure  never  ceases  to 
flow;  friends  to  cheer,  —  kindred  to  bless,  —  flowers  of  beauty 
and  sounds  of  infinite  music  to  soothe  and  to  charm  —  high  hopes 


432  L^TITIA    ELIZABETH   MACLEAN. 

and  glorious  aspirations  — the  proud  consciousness  of  Being  and 
Thiinking  —  and  above  all,  the  irrepressible  expectation  of  a  still 
brighter,  more  beautiful,  more  high  and  noble  world  ;  —  this, 
though  a  poor  and  feeble  picture,  is  at  least  more  like  life  than  the 
other.  O,  a  glorious  heritage  Life  is  !  To  live  !  —  what  ineffable 
meaning  there  is  in  that  short  expression  !  —  to  live !  To  be 
a  part  of  never-ending  Life  !  To  be  more  immortal  than  worlds, 
—  more  eternal  than  the  stars, —  more  indestructible  than  Na- 
ture,—  more  strong  than  Death  :  —  to  be  a  part  of  —  to  be  joined 
to  —  the  one  great  Everlasting  Principle  of  Being  :  — what  power, 
what  glory,  what  majesty  there  is  in  the  thought !  Pain,  sorrow, 
sin,  evil,  are  these  man's  heritage  and  lot,  then  ?  No !  Joy, 
Friendship,  Affection,  Hope — "this,  this  is  Life;"  —  and  that 
soul  is  not  a  true  poet's  soul  which  would  seek  to  persuade  us  to 
the  contrary. 

Few  writers  are  so  picturesque  as  Mrs.  Maclean.  Her  descrip- 
tions are  perfect  paintings,  and  often  indeed  give  us  a  better  idea 
of  a  scene  than  an  actual  representation  of  it.  Some  of  her 
poetical  illustrations  of  the  pictures  in  Msher^s  Drawing-Room 
Scrap-Book  are  as  superior  in  intelligence  to  the  plates  as  a  living 
being  is  to  a  marble  statue. 

The  following  poem  will  give  a  good  general  idea  of  Mrs. 
Maclean's  picturesque  manner. 


THE    SOLDIER  S    FUNERAL. 

And  the  muffled  drum  roll'd  on  the  air, 
Warriors  with  stately  step  were  there ; 
On  every  arm  was  the  black  crape  bound, 
Every  carbine  was  turn'd  to  the  ground: 
Solemn  the  sound  of  their  measur'd  tread. 
As  silent  and  slow  they  folio w'd  the  dead. 
The  riderless  horse  was  led  in  the  rear. 
There  were  white  plumes  waving  over  the  biei. 
Helmet  and  sword  were  laid  on  the  pall. 
For  it  was  a  Soldier's  Funeral. 


L.ETITIA   ELIZABETH   MACLEAN.  433 


That  soldier  hath  stood  on  the  battle  plain, 

Where  every  step  was  over  the  slain  ; 

But  the  brand  and  the  ball  had  pass'd  him  by, 

And  he  came  to  his  native  land  to  die. 

'T  was  hard  to  come  to  that  native  land 

And  not  clasp  one  familiar  hand ! 

'Twas  hard  to  be  number'd  amid  the  dead, 

Or  ere  he  could  hear  his  welcome  said ! 

But  'twas  something  to  see  its  cliffs  once  more, 

And  to  lay  his  bones  on  his  own  lov'd  shore  ; 

To  thiuk  that  the  friends  of  his  youth  might  weep 

O'er  the  green  grass  turf  of  the  soldier's  sleep. 

The  bugles  ceased  their  wailing  sound 

As  the  coffin  was  lower'd  into  the  ground : 

A  volley  was  fired,  a  blessing  said, 

One  moment's  pause  —  and  they  left  the  dead  ! 

—  I  saw  a  poor  and  an  aged  man. 

His  step  was  feeble,  his  lip  was  wan ; 

He  knelt  him  down  on  the  new  rais'd  mound, 

His  face  was  bow'd  on  the  cold  damp  ground, 

He  rais'd  his  head,  his  tears  were  done. 

The  Father  had  pray'd  o'er  his  only  Son ! 

As  a  further  specimen  of  Mrs.  Maclean's  descriptive  power  I 
present  the  following  truly  fine  poem.  Campbell  would  hardly 
have  written  better. 

THE    GRASP    OF    THE    DEAD. 

'T  was  in  the  battle-field,  and  the  cold  pale  moon 

Look'd  down  on  the  dead  and  dying ; 
And  the  wind  passed  o'er  with  a  dirge  and  a  wail 

Where  the  young  and  brave  were  lying. 

With  his  father's  sword  in  his  red  right  hand. 

And  the  hostile  dead  around  him. 
Lay  a  youthful  chief:  but  his  bed  was  the  ground, 
And  the  grave's  icy  sleep  had  bound  him. 
55  ^N 


434  L^TITIA   ELIZABETH  MACLEAN. 


A  reckless  rover,  'mid  death  and  doom, 
Pass'd  a  soldier,  his  plunder  seeking; 

Careless  he  slept,  where  friend  and  foe 
Lay  alike  in  their  life-blood  reeking. 

Drawn  by  the  shine  of  the  warrior's  sword, 

The  soldier  paus'd  beside  it ; 
He  wrench'd  the  hand  with  a  giant's  strength, 

—  But  the  grasp  of  the  dead  defied  it. 

He  loos'd  his  hold,  and  his  English  heart 
Took  part  with  the  dead  before  him  ; 

And  he  honour'd  the  brave  who  died  sword  in  hand, 
As  with  soften'd  brow  he  leant  o'er  him. 

"  A  soldier's  death  thou  hast  boldly  died, 

A  soldier's  grave  won  by  it : 
Before  I  would  take  that  sword  from  thine  hand. 

My  own  life's  blood  should  dye  it, 

"  Thou  shalt  not  be  left  for  the  carrion  crow, 

Or  the  wolf  to  batten  o'er  thee  ; 
Or  the  coward  insult  the  gallant  dead. 

Who  in  life  had  trembled  before  thee." 

Then  dug  he  a  grave  in  the  crimson  earth. 
Where  his  warrior  foe  was  sleeping  ; 

And  he  laid  him  there  in  honour  and  rest. 
With  his  sword  in  his  own  brave  keeping ! 


There  is  far  down  in  woman's  heart  a  beautiful  tenaency  and 
love  towards  the  heroic,  which  does  more  to  cultivate  and  extend 
that  sentiment  than  the  much  fiercer  but  less  pure  passion  for  it 
which  nerves  the  arm  and  fires  the  words  of  man.  A  noble  deed 
always  receives  its  best  response  of  approbation  from  woman. 
Woman  sees  the  signs  of  true  greatness  far  more  readily  than 
man.     Mark  how  Mrs.  Maclean  celebrates  a  hero  ! 


L^TITIA   ELIZABETH   MACLEAN, 


435 


CRESCENTIUS. 

I  look'd  upon  his  brow  — no  sign 

Of  guilt  or  fear  was  there  ; 
He  stood  as  proud  by  that  death-shrine 

As  even  o'er  despair 
He  had  a  power;  in  his  eye 
There  was  a  quenchless  energy, 

A  spirit  that  could  dare 
The  deadliest  form  that  death  could  take, 
And  dare  it  for  the  daring's  sake. 

He  stood  —  the  fetters  on  his  hand  : 

He  raised  them  haughtily  ; 
And  had  that  grasp  been  on  the  brand. 

It  could  not  wave  on  high 
With  freer  pride  than  it  waved  now  ; 
Around  he  look'd  with  changeless  brow 

On  many  a  torture  nigh : 
The  rack,  the  chain,  the  axe,  the  wheel, 
And,  worst  of  all,  his  own  red  steel. 

I  saw  him  once  before ;  he  rode 

Upon  a  coal-black  steed  ; 
And  tens  of  thousands  throng'd  the  road. 

And  bade  their  warrior  speed  ; 
His  helm,  his  breastplate,  were  of  gold. 
And  graved  with  many  a  dent,  that  told 

Of  many  a  soldier's  deed  ; 
The  sun  shone  on  his  sparkling  mail. 
And  danced  his  snow-plume  on  the  gale. 

But  now  he  stood  chain'd  and  alone, 

The  headsman  by  his  side, 
The  plume,  the  helm,  the  charger  gone  ; 

The  sword  which  had  defied 
The  mightiest  lay  broken  near  ; 
And  yet  no  sign  or  sound  of  fear 

Came  from  that  lip  of  pride  ; 


43J  LiETITIA   ELIZABETH  MACLEAN. 

And  never  king  or  conqueror's  brow 
Wore  higher  look  than  his  did  now. 

He  bent  beneath  the  headsman's  stroke 

With  an  uncover'd  eye  ; 
A  wild  shout  from  the  numbers  broke 

Who  throng'd  to  see  him  die. 
It  was  a  people's  loud  acclaim, 
The  voice  of  anger  and  of  shame, 

A  nation's  funeral  cry  ; 
Rome's  wail  above  her  only  son, 
Her  patriot  and  her  latest  one. 


With  one  more  extract  I  conclude.     It  is  a  Ballad  called 

SIR   WALTER  MANNY    AT    HIS    FATHKu's    TOSIB. 

"Oh,  show  me  the  grave  where  my  father  is  laid. 

Show  his  lowly  grave  to  me  ; 
A  hundred  pieces  of  broad  red  gold, 

Old  man,  shall  thy  guerdon  be." 

With  torch  in  hand,  and  bared  head, 

The  old  man  led  the  way  : 
And  cold  and  shrill  pass'd  the  midnight  wind 

Through  his  hair  of  silvery  grey. 

A  stately  knight  foUow'd  his  steps. 

And  his  form  was  tall  and  proud  ; 
And  his  step  fell  soft,  and  his  helm  was  off, 

And  his  head  on  his  bosom  bow'd. 

They  pass'd  through  the  cathedral  aisles, 

"Whose  sculptur'd  walls  declare 
The  deeds  of  many  a  noble  knight, 

De  Manny's  name  was  not  there. 


L.ETITIA   ELIZABETH    MACLEAN.  437 

They  pass'd  next  a  low  and  humble  church, 

Scarce  seen  amid  the  gloom  ; 
There  was  many  a  grave,  yet  not  even  there 

Had  his  father  found  a  tomb. 

They  travers'd  a  bleak  and  barren  heath. 

Till  they  came  to  a  gloomy  wood ; 
Where  the  dark  trees  droop'd,  and  the  dark  grass  grew, 

As  curs'd  with  the  sight  of  blood. 

There  stood  a  lorn  and  blasted  tree. 

As  heaven  and  earth  were  its  foes, 
And  beneath  was  a  piled-up  mound  of  stones, 

Where  a  rude  grey  cross  arose. 

"  And  lo  !"  said  the  ancient  servitor, 

"  It  is  here  thy  father  is  laid  ; 
No  mass  has  bless'd  the  lowly  grave. 

Which  his  humblest  follower  made. 

"  I  would  have  wander'd  through  every  land 

Where  his  gallant  name  was  known, 
To  have  pray'd  a  mass  for  the  soul  of  the  dead, 

And  a  monumental  stone. 

"  But  I  knew  thy  father  had  a  son. 

To  whom  the  task  would  be  dear ; 
Young  knight,  I  kept  the  warrior's  grave 

For  thee,  and  thou  art  here." 

Sir  Walter  grasped  the  old  man's  hand, 

But  spoke  he  never  a  word  ;  — 
So  still  it  was  that  the  fall  of  tears 

On  his  mailed  vest  was  heard. 

Oh,  the  heart  has  all  too  many  tears : 

But  none  are  like  those  that  wait 
On  the  blighted  love,  the  loneliness 

Of  the  young  orphan's  fate. 

NN* 


438  L^TITIA   ELIZABETH  MACLEAN. 


He  call'd  to  niiiifl  when  for  knighthood's  badge 

He  knelt  at  Edward's  tlirone, 
How  many  stood  by  a  parent's  side, 

But  he  stood  there  alone  ! 

He  thought  how  often  his  heart  had  pined, 

When  his  was  the  victor's  name, 
Thrice  desolate,  strangers  might  give. 

But  could  not  share  his  fame. 

Down  he  knelt  in  silent  prayer 

On  the  grave  where  his  father  slept ; 

And  many  the  tears,  and  bitter  the  thoughts 
As  the  warrior  his  vigil  kept. 

And  he  built  a  little  chapel  there. 

And  bade  the  deathbell  toll, 
And  prayers  be  said,  and  mass  he  sung, 

For  the  weal  of  the  warrior's  soul. 

Years  pass'd,  and  ever  Sir  Walter  was  first 

Where  warlike  deeds  were  done ; 
But  who  would  not  look  for  the  gallant  knight 

In  the  leal  and  loyal  son  ? 


THE   AWAKENING    OF    ENDYMION. 


Lone  upon  the    mountain,    the    pine-trees   wailing  round   him. 
Lone  upon  a  mountain  the  Grecian  youth  is  laid ; 

Sleep,  mystic  sleep,  for  many  a  year  has  bound  him, 

Yet  his  beauty,  like  a  statue's  pale  and  fair,  is  undecay'd. 
When  will  he  awaken  ? 

When  will  he  awaken  ?  a  loud  voice  hath  been  crying 
Night  after  night,  and  the  cry  has  been  in  vain  ; 


L.¥.TITIA  ELIZABETH  MACLEAN.  439 

Winds,  woods,  and  waves,  found  echoes  for  replying, 

But  the  tones  of  the  beloved  one  were  never  heard  again. 
When  will  he  awaken  ? 
Ask'd  the  midnight's  silver  queen. 

Never  mortal  eye  has  looked  upon  his  sleeping ; 

Parents,  kindred,  comrades,  have  mourned  for  him  as  dead  ; 
By  day  the  gathered  clouds  have  had  him  in  their  keeping. 
And  at  night  the  solemn  shadows  round  his  rest  are  shed. 
When  will  he  awaken  ? 
Long  has  been  the  cry  of  faithful  Love's  imploring. 

Long  has  Hope  been  watching  with  soft  eyes  fixed  above ; 
When  will  the  Fates,  the  life  of  life  restoring. 

Own  themselves  vanquished  by  mnch-enduring  love  ? 
When  will  he  awaken  ? 
Asks  the  midnight's  weary  queen. 

Beautiful  the  sleep  that  she  has  watch'd  untiring, 

Lighted  up  with  visions  from  yonder  radiant  sky. 
Full  of  an  immortal's  glorious  inspiring. 

Softened  by  the  woman's  meek  and  loving  sigh, 
When  will  he  awaken  ? 
He  has  been  dreaming  of  old  heroic  stories, 

The  poet's  passionate  world  has  entered  in  his  soul ; 
He  has  grown  conscious  of  life's  ancestral  glories. 

When  sages  and  when  Kings  first  upheld  the  mind's  control. 
When  will  he  awaken  ? 
Ask'd  the  midnight's  stately  queen. 

Lo!  the  appointed  midnight!  the  present  hour  is  fated; 

It  is  Endymion's  planet  that  rises  on  the  air ; 
How  long,  how  tenderly  his  goddess  love  has  waited, 
Waited  with  a  love  too  mighty  for  despair. 
Soon  he  will  awaken  ! 
Soft  amid  the  pines  is  a  sound  as  if  of  singing, 

Tones  that  seem  the  lute's  from  the  breathing  flowers  depart, 
Not  a  wind  that  wanders  o'er  Mount  Latmos,  but  is  bringing 
Music  that  is  murmur'd  from  nature's  inmost  heart. 
Soon  he  will  awaken, 
To  his  and  midnight's  queen  ! 


Lovely  is  the  green  earth  —  she  knows  the  hour  is  holy  ; 

Starry  are  the  heavens,  lit  with  eternal  joy  ; 
Light  like  their  own  is  dawning  sweet  and  slowly 

O'er  the  fair  and  sculptured  forehead  of  that  yet  dreaming  boy. 
Soon  he  will  awaken  ! 
Red  as  the  red  rose  towards  the  morning  turning, 

Warms  the  youth's  lip  to  the  watcher's  near  his  own, 
While  the  dark  eyes  open,  bright,  intense,  and  burning 
With  a  life  more  glorious  than  ere  they  closed  was  known. 
Yes,  he  has  awakened 
For  the  midnight's  happy  queen  ! 

What  is  this  old  history  but  a  lesson  given, 

How  true  love  still  conquers  by  the  deep  strength  of  truth, 
How  all  the  impulses,  whose  native  home  is  heaven. 
Sanctify  the  visions  of  hope,  faith,  and  youth. 
'T  is  for  such  they  waken  ! 
When  every  worldly  thought  is  utterly  forsaken. 

Comes  the  starry  midnight,  felt  by  life's  gifted  few  ; 
Then  will  the  spirit  from  its  earthly  sleep  awaken 
To  a  being  more  intense,  more  spiritual  and  true. 
So  doth  the  soul  awaken. 
Like  that  youth  to  night's  fair  queen  ! 


WE    MIGHT    HAVE    BEEN  ! 


We  might  have  been !  —  these  are  but  common  words, 
And  yet  they  make  the  sum  of  life's  bewailing  ; 

They  are  the  echo  of  those  finer  chords, 
Whose  music  life  deplores  when  unavailing. 
We  might  have  been  ! 

We  might  have  been  so  happy  !  says  the  child. 
Pent  in  the  weary  school-room  during  summer, 

When  the  green  rushes  'mid  the  marshes  wild, 
And  rosy  fruits,  attend  the  radiant  comer. 
We  might  have  been  ! 


L^TITIA   ELIZABETH  MACLEAN.  441 


It  is  the  thought  that  darkens  on  our  youth, 

When  first  experience  —  sad  experience  —  teaches 

What  fallacies  we  have  believed  for  truth, 
And  what  few  truths  endeavour  ever  reaches. 
We  might  have  been  ! 

Alas  !  how  different  from  what  we  are 

Had  we  but  known  the  bitter  path  before  us ; 

But  feelings,  hopes,  and  fancies  left  afar. 

What  in  the  wide  bleak  world  can  e'er  restore  us  ? 
We  might  have  been  ! 

It  is  the  motto  of  all  human  things, 

The  end  of  all  that  waits  on  mortal  seeking  ; 

The  weary  weight  upon  Hope's  flagging  wings. 
It  is  the  cry  of  the  worn  heart  while  breaking  — 
We  might  have  been  ! 

And  when,  warm  with  the  heaven  that  gave  it  birth, 
Dawns  on  our  world-worn  way  Love's  hour  Elysian, 

The  last  fair  angel  lingering  on  our  earth. 

The  shadow  of  what  thought  obscures  the  vision  ? 
We  might  have  been  ! 

A  cold  fatality  attends  on  love, 

Too  soon  or  else  too  late  the  heart-beat  quickens  ; 
The  star  which  is  our  fate  springs  up  above, 

And  we  but  say  —  while  round  the  vapour  thickens - 
We  might  have  been  ! 

Life  knoweth  no  like  misery ;  the  rest 

Are  single  sorrows, —  but  in  this  are  blended 

All  sweet  emotions  that  disturb  the  breast ; 
The  light  that  was  our  loveliest  is  ended. 
We  might  have  been  ! 

Henceforth,  how  much  of  the  full  heart  must  be 
A  sealed  book  at  whose  contents  we  tremble  ? 
56 


442  L^TITIA    ELIZABETH    MACLEAN. 


A  still  voice  mutters  'mid  our  misery, 

The  worst  to  hear,  because  it  must  dissemble  — 
We  might  have  been  ! 

Life  is  made  up  of  miserable  hours, 

And  all  of  which  we  craved  a  brief  possessing. 
For  which  we  wasted  Avishes,  hopes,  and  powers, 

Comes  with  some  fatal  drawback  on  the  blessing. 
We  might  have  been  ! 

The  future  never  renders  to  the  past 

The  young  beliefs  intrusted  to  its  keeping ; 

Inscribe  one  sentence  —  life's  first  truth  and  last  — 
On  the  pale  marble  where  our  dust  is  sleeping  — 
We  miffht  have  been. 


STANZAS     ON    THE     DEATH    OF    MRS.    HEMANS. 
«  The  rose  — the  glorious  rose  is  gone."' — Lays  of  Many  Landt 

Bring  flowers  to  crown  the  cup  and  lute, — 

Bring  flowers, —  the  bride  is  near  ; 
Bring  flowers  to  soothe  the  captive's  cell. 

Bring  flowers  to  strew  the  bier ! 
Bring  flowers  !   thus  said  the  lovely  song  ; 

And  shall  they  not  be  brought 
To  her  who  linked  the  offering 

With  feeling  and  with  thought  ? 

Bring  flowers,  —  the  perfumed  and  the  pure, — 

Those  with  the  morning  dew, 
A  sigh  in  every  fragrant  leaf, 

A  tear  on  every  hue. 
So  pure,  so  sweet  thy  life  has  been, 

So  filling  earth  and  air 
With  odours  and  with  loveliness. 

Till  common  scenes  grew  fair 


LiETITiA   ELIZABETH   MACLEAN.  443 


Thy  song  around  our  daily  path 

Flung  beauty  born  of  dreams, 
And  scattered  o'er  the  actual  world 

The  spirit's  sunny  gleams. 
Mysterious  influence,  that  to  earth 

Brings  down  the  heaven  above, 
And  fills  the  universal  heart 

With  universal  love. 

Such  gifts  were  thine, —  as  from  the  block 

The  unformed  and  the  cold, 
The  sculptor  calls  to  breathing  life 

Some  shape  of  perfect  mould. 
So  thou  from  common  thoughts  and  things 

Didst  call  a  charmed  song. 
Which  on  a  sweet  and  swelling  tide 

Bore  the  full  soul  along. 

And  thou  from  far  and  foreign  lands 

Didst  bring  back  many  a  tone. 
And  giving  such  new  music  still, 

A  music  of  thine  own. 
A  lofty  strain  of  generous  thoughts, 

And  yet  subdued  and  sweet, — 
An  angel's  song,  who  sings  of  earth, 

Whose  cares  are  at  his  feet. 

And  yet  thy  song  is  sorrowful, 

Its  beauty  is  not  bloom' ; 
The  hopes  of  which  it  breathes,  are  hopes 

That  look  beyond  the  tomb. 
Thy  song  is  sorrowful  as  winds 

That  wander  o'er  the  plain, 
And  ask  for  summer's  vanish'd  flowers, 

And  ask  for  them  in  vain. 

Ah !  dearly  purchased  is  the  gift, 
The  gift  of  song  like  thine ; 


444  LiETITIA   ELIZABETH  MACLEAN. 

A  fated  doom  is  her's  who  stands 
The  priestess  of  the  shrine. 

The   crowd  —  they  only  see  the  crown, 
They  only  hear  the  hymn  ; 

They  mark  not  that  the  cheek  is  pale, 
And  that  the  eye  is  dim. 

Wound  to  a  pitch  too  exquisite, 

The  soul's  fine  chords  are  wrung  ; 
With  misery  and  melody 

They  are  too  highly  strung. 
The  heart  is  made  too  sensitive 

Life's  daily  pain  to  bear ; 
It  beats  in  music,  but  it  beats 

Beneath  a  deep  despair. 

It  never  meets  the  love  it  paints, 

The  love  for  which  it  pines  ; 
Too  much  of  Heaven  is  in  the  faith 

That  such  a  heart  enshrines. 
The  meteor-wreath  the  poet  wears 

Must  make  a  lonely  lot ; 
It  dazzles,  only  to  divide 

From  those  who  wear  it  not. 

Didst  thou  not  tremble  at  thy  fame. 

And  loathe  its  bitter  prize, 
While  what  to  others  triumph  seemed. 

To  thee  was  sacrifice  ? 
Oh,  Flower  brought  from  Paradise, 

To  this  cold  world  of  ours, 
Shadows  of  beauty  such  as  thine 

Recall  thy  native  bowers. 

Let  others  thank  thee — 'twas  for  them 
Thy  soft  leaves  thou  didst  wreathe  ; 

The  red  rose  wastes  itself  in  sighs 
Whose  sweetness  others  breathe  ! 


And  they  have  thanked  thee  —  many  a  lip 

Has  asked  of  thine  for  words, 
When  thoughts,  life's  finer  thoughts,  have  touched 

The  spirit's  inmost  chords. 

How  many  loved  and  honoured  thee 

Who  only  knew  thy  name  ; 
Which  o'er  tlie  weary  working  worM 

Like  starry  music  came  ! 
With  what  still  hours  of  calm  delight 

Thy  songs  and  image  blend  ; 
I  cannot  choose  but  think  thou  wert 

An  old  familiar  friend. 

The  charm  that  dwelt  in  songs  of  thine 

My  inmost  spirit  moved  ; 
And  yet  I  feel  as  thou  hadst  been 

Not  half  enough  beloved. 
They  say  that  thou  wert  f\iint,  and  worn 

With  suffering  and  with  care  ; 
What  music  must  have  filled  the  soul 

That  had  so  much  to  spare  ! 

Oh,  weary  One  !  since  thou  art  laid 

Within  thy  mother's  breast  — 
The  green,  the  quiet  mother-earth  — 

Thrice  blessed  be  thy  rest  ! 
Thy  heart  is  left  within  our  hearts. 

Although  life's  pang  is  o'er  ; 
But  the  quick  tears  are  in  my  eyes. 

And  I  can  write  no  more. 

00 


446  MRS.  ABDY. 


MRS.    ABDY 

Is  a  well-known  and  very  able  contributor  to  many  of  our  Annuals 
and  Magazines.  She  has  published  a  Volume  of  Poems,  for  pri- 
vate circulation,  many  of  the  pieces  in  which  are  distinguished 
by  a  purity  of  diction  and  loftiness  of  sentiment,  which  leave  her 
little,  if  at  all,  behind  the  best  writers  among  her  sex.  Mrs.  Abdy 
is  one  of  the  many  female  poets  who,  like  Mrs.  Hemans,  have 
consecrated  their  spiritual  gifts  to  the  service  of  religion.  Her 
piety  is  fervent,  without  a  tinge  of  bigotry  ;  and  her  verse  is  full  of 
that  serenity  and  cheerfulness  which  only  a  warm  faith  can  inspire. 

THE    DESTINY    OF    GENIUS. 

"How  often  I  have  exclaimed,  — '  I  am  not  beloved  as  I  love  !'  " 

Miss  Landox. 

Daughter  of  song  !  how  truly  hast  thou  spoken  ! 

Yet  deem  not  that  to  thee  alone  belong 
Sad  merrtories  of  idols  crush'd  and  broken, 

Of  wounding  falsehood,  and  of  bitter  wrong  : 
Oh !  in  thy  cares,  thy  trials,  I  can  trace 
The  lot  appointed  for  thy  gifted  race. 

Genius  is  all  too  lavish  of  its  feelings. 

It  gives  its  tenderness  of  heavenly  birth. 
To  waste  its  brignt  and  beautiful  revealings 

On  the  dull  common  natures  of  the  earih, 
Casting  the  flowers  of  a  celestial  land, 
To  droop  and  wither  upon  barren  sand. 

And  earth's  cold  children  cherish  not  the  treasure, 
The  pure  and  blessed  offering  they  repel, 

Busied  in  worldly  toil,  or  worldly  pleasure, 
Their  souls  respond  not  to  the  hidden  spell 


MRS.  ABDY.  447 


Touch'd  by  a  hand  whose  skilful  power  was  given 
As  the  peculiar" boon  of  favouring  Heaven. 

And  must  it  then  be  so  ?  —  must  cold  rejection 

Still  mock  the  heart  where  Genius  warmly  glows  ? 

No !  there  is  One  on  whom  its  deep  aflfection 
In  fearless  trusting  ardour  may  repose  ; 

Exhausting  all  the  riches  of  its  store, 

Yet  ever  in  return  receiving  more. 

Yes :  let  it  safely  guard  its  true  devotion 

From  the  low  commerce  of  the  worthless  sod, 

Laying  each  fond  and  rapturous  emotion 
A  tribute  at  the  holy  shrine  of  God  : 

Oh !  where  can  gifted  spirits  wisely  love. 

Save  when  they  fix  their  hopes  on  One  above  ? 


THE    CHILD    IN    A    GARDEN. 


Child  of  the  flaxen  locks,  and  laughing  eye, 
Culling  with  hasty  glee  the  flowerets  gay, 

Or  chasing  with  light  foot  the  butterfly, 
I  love  to  mark  thee  at  thy  frolic  play. 

Near  thee  I  see  thy  tender  father  stand, 
His  anxious  eye  pursues  thy  roving  track  ; 

And  oft  with  warning  voice  and  beckoning  hand. 
He  cnecks  thy  speed,  and  gently  draws  thee  back. 

Why  dost  thou  meekly  yield  to  his  decree  ? 

Fair  boy,  his  fond  regard  to  thee  is  known ; 
He  does  not  check  thy  joys  from  tyranny  — 

Thou  art  his  lov'd,  his  cherish'd,  and  his  own. 

When  worldly  lures,  in  manhood's  coming  hours. 
Tempt  thee  to  wander  from  discretion's  way; 

Oh  !  grasp  not  eagerly  the  offer'd  flowers, 
Pause  if  thy  Heavenly  Father  bid  thee  stay. 


Pause,  and  in  Him  revere  a  friend  and  guide, 
Who  does  not  willingly  thy  faults  reprove> 

But  ever,  when  thou  rovest  from  his  side, 
Watches  to  win  thee  back  with  pitying  love 


WHERE    SHALL    I    DIE 


Where  shall  I  die  ?  —  Shall  Death's  cold  hand 

Arrest  my  breath  while  dear  ones  stand 

In  silent  watchful  love,  to  shed 

Their  tears  around  my  quiet  bed  ? 

Or,  shall  I  meet  my  final  doom 

Far  from  my  country  and  my  home  ? 

Lord,  to  Thy  will  I  bend  the  knee ; 

Thou  evermore  hast  cared  for  me. 

How  shall  I  die  ?  —  Shall  Death's  harsh  yoke 

Subdue  me  by  a  single  stroke  ? 

Or  shall  my  fainting  frame  sustain 

The  tedious  languishing  of  pain. 

Sinking  in  weariness  away. 

Slowly  and  sadly,  day  by  day  ? 

Lord,  I  repose  my  cares  on  Thee ; 

Thou  evermore  hast  cared  for  me. 

When  shall  I  die  ?  —  Shall  Death's  stern  calJ 

Soon  come,  my  spirit  to  appal  ? 

Or  shall  I  live  through  circling  years, 

A  pilgrim  in  this  vale  of  tears  ; 

Surviving  those  I  loved  the  best. 

Who  in  the  peaceful  church-yard  rest? 

Lord  !  I  await  Thy  wise  decree  ; 

Thou  evermore  hast  cared  for  me. 

Yet,  oh,  sustain  me  by  Thy  power ! 
Be  with  me  in  Life's  parting  hour: 


MRS.   ABDY.  449 


Tell  me  of  peace  and  pardon  won 
Through  the  dear  mercies  of  Thy  Son  : 
Then  shall  I  feel  resign'd  to  go 
From  Life's  brief  joy  and  fleeting  woe, 
If  I  in  death  the  Saviour  see, 
Who  evermore  hath  cared  for  me. 


The  subjoined  lines  on  the  death  of  Mrs.  Hemans  contain  so 
fine  an  appreciation  of  that  gifted  lady's  genius,  and  furnish  so 
noble  a  lesson  to  our  Poetesses  from  one  of  their  own  number, 
that  I  am  sure  I  shall  be  cheerfully  pardoned  for  transcribing  it. 


LINES    WRITTEN    ON   THE    DEATH    OF    MRS.    HEMANS. 

Yes,  she  has  left  us.     She,  whose  gifted  lays 
So  nobly  earned  a  nation's  love  and  praise, 
Entranced  the  high  and  lofty  ones  of  earth, — 
And  shed  a  radiance  o'er  the  peasant's  hearth. 
She  from  the  world  is  taken.     Her  sweet  lute 
Hangs  on  the  willow  desolate  and  mute  ; 
And  while  we  half  unconsciously  repeat 
Strains  we  have  learned  as  household  words  to  greet. 
How  mournful  is  the  thought,  that  she  can  pour 
Songs  of  such  touching  melody  no  more  ! 

Oh  !  what  a  range  of  mind  was  hers,  how  bright 
Her  pages  seemed  with  Inspiration's  light ; 
And  yet,  though  skilled  to  dazzle  and  o'erwlielm, 
Queen  of  Imagination's  fairy  realm, 
Her  highest  excellence  appeared  to  be 
In  the  calm  region  of  reality. 
In  Nature's  wondrous  workings  lay  her  art. 
From  that  exhausdess  mine,  the  human  heart. 
She  brought  her  gems.     'T  was  hers,  with  gentle  skill 
The  slumbering  feelings  to  arouse  and  thrill ; 
57  oo* 


450  JVIRS.  ABDY. 


With  colours  not  more  beautiful  than  true 

The  modest  virtues  of  her  sex  she  drew. 

"  Records  of  Woman."     At  that  name  arise 

Fair  shapes  of  truth  and  goodness  to  our  eyes: 

Not  the  gay  phantoms  seen  in  Fancy's  trance, 

Not  the  bright  paragons  of  old  romance, 

Nor  yet  the  wonders  of  a  later  age, 

The  heroines  of  Reason's  formal  page, 

Full  of  cold,  calculating,  worldly  sense. 

And  self-elate  in  moral  excellence  ! 

No  —  at  Religion's  pure  and  sacred  flame 

Her  torch  she  kindled  —  't  was  her  wish  and  aim 

That  in  her  female  portraits  we  should  see 

The  blest  effects  of  humble  piety, 

Proving  that,  in  this  world  of  sin  and  strife. 

None  could  fulfil  the  charities  of  life, 

Or  bear  its  trials,  save  the  path  they  trod 

Were  hallowed  by  the  guiding  grace  of  God. 


And  well  her  spirit  in  her  life  was  shown. 

No  character  more  lovely  than  her  own 

Fell  from  her  gifted  pen  —  though  numbers  breathed 

Her  name,  though  laurel  bands  her  brow  enwreathed. 

She  sought  not  in  the  world's  vain  scenes  to  roam. 

Her  duties  were  her  joys,  her  sphere  her  home: 

And  Memory  still  a  pensive  pleasure  blends 

AVith  the  affliction  of  her  weeping  friends. 

When  they  recall  the  meek  calm  lowliness 

With  which  she  bore  the  blaze  of  her  success  : 

But  trials  soon  as  well  as  triumphs  came. 

Sickness  subdued  her  weak  and  languid  frame. 

Then  was  she  patient,  tranquil,  and  resigned, 

Religion  soothed  and  fortified  her  mind  ; 

She  knew  that  for  the  blessed  Saviour's  sake, 

In  whom  she  trusted,  she  should  sleep  to  wake 

In  glory,  and  she  yielded  up  her  breath. 

Feeling  she  won  eternity  by  death. 


MRS.   ABDY.  451 


Oh  !  may  her  holy  principles  impress 
The  soul  of  each  surviving  poetess  ; 
No  trivial  charge  is  to  her  care  consigned, 
Who  gives  to  public  view  her  stores  of  mind  : 
Even  though  her  sum  of  treasures  may  be  small, 
Good  can  be  worked,  if  Heaven  permit,  by  all : 
She  who  a  single  talent  holds  in  store, 
By  patient  zeal  may  make  that  little  more ; 
And  though  but  few,  alas  !  can  boast  the  powers 
Of  her  now  lost,  the  gift  may  still  be  ours 
Humbly  to  imitate  her  better  part ; 
And  strive  to  elevate  each  reader's  heart 
To  themes  of  purer  and  of  holier  birth 
Than  the  low  pleasures  and  vain  pomps  of  earth. 
Never  may  Woman's  lays  their  service  lend 
Vice  to  encourage,  soften,  or  defend. 
Nor  may  we  in  our  own  conceit  be  wise, 
Weaving  frail  webs  of  mere  moralities  : 
No,  may  we  ever  on  His  grace  reflect, 
To  whom  we  owe  our  cherished  intellect. 
Deem  that  such  powers  in  trust  to  us  Avere  given 
To  serve  and  glorify  our  Lord  in  heaven. 
And  place,  amid  the  highest  joys  of  fame. 
Our  best  distinction  in  a  Christian's  name. 


Mrs.  Abdy's  verses  have  invariably  this  great  merit  —  that  they 
are  written  with  a  purpose.  She  never  fails  to  urge  a  truth,  or 
enforce  a  duty,  in  her  writings.  The  subjoined  poems  are  good 
illustrations  of  this  assertion. 


THE    BUILDERS    OF    THE    ARK. 

The  ark  is  on  the  waters,  and  one  family  alone. 
Amid  a  lost  and  guilty  race,  its  saving  succour  own ; 
Why  are  so  few  a  number  to  the  sacred  shelter  brought  ? 
Where  are  the  many  builders  who  the  wondrous  structure  wrought? 


452  MRS.  ABDY. 


Alas  !  they  laboured  at  their  task  with  cold  mechanic  skill ; 
They  had  no  hope  of  future  grace,  no  fear  of  future  ill ; 
Vainly  the  holy  ark  they  view,  vainly  its  refuge  crave  — 
Others  are  by  their  efforts  saved,  themselves  they  cannot  save. 

May  not  the  record  of  their  fate  a  warning  truth  convey, 
To  some  who  in  religion's  cause  unwearied  zeal  display  ? 
Our  anxious  cares  extend  to  all,  our  active  works  abound. 
But  say,  within  our  secret  hearts  is  true  devotion  found  ? 

We  send  the  blessed  Book  of  Life  to  cheer  the  heathen's  night, 
But  do  we  duly  read  and  prize  its  words  of  hope  and  light? 
Where  bands  of  pious  Christians  meet  we  eagerly  repair, 
Do  we  with  equal  fervour  breathe  our  solitary  prayer  ? 

The  sinful  we  reclaim  and  warn,  the  ignorant  we  teach. 
We  place  them  in  the  narrow  road,  a  land  of  joy  to  reach ; 
How  dire  the  thought,  that,  while  they  bless  their  firm  and  friendly 

guide, 
They  may  attain  the  gates  of  heaven,  and  miss  us  from  their  side  ! 

Our  prompt  and  ready  labours  may  the  praise  of  man  demand ; 
Man  judges  of  the  spirit  by  the  workings  of  the  hand  : 
But  God's  unfailing  wisdom  seeks  religion's  hidden  part. 
And  marks  if  true  and  vital  faith  be  cherished  in  the  heart. 

Yet  let  us  not  unmindful  of  our  erring  brethren  prove  ; 
No,  let  increasing  energy  inspire  our  deeds  of  love, 
But  while  to  save  another's  soul  our  ardent  zeal  is  shown, 
O,  let  us  watch  with  ceaseless  care  the  welfare  of  our  own  I 


THE    DARKNESS    OF    EGYPT. 

But  all  the  children  of  Israel  had  light  in  their  dwellings."  (Exodus,  x.  23.^ 

Lo  !  Moses  stretcheth  forth  at  God's  command 
His  hand  to  heaven,  and  at  the  mystic  sign 

Thick  darkness  gathers  over  Egypt's  land  ; 
The  glorious  lights  above  no  longer  shine  ; 


MRS.   ABDY.  453 


None  knows  another  —  each  one  rooted  stays 
By  his  sad  hearth  through  these  appalling  days. 

And  do  their  captives  share  their  mournful  doom  ? 

Must  Israel's  wretched  children  gaze  in  fear 
On  the  dark  horrors  of  surrounding  gloom, 

Making  imprisonment's  long  hours  more  drear  ? 
The  judgment  to  redress  their  wrongs  was  sent, 
And  must  they  then  partake  the  punishment  ? 

They  do  not  share  it :  favoured  is  the  race 
Of  injured  Israel,  and  the  mists  of  night 

Invade  them  not ;  each  sees  his  dwelling-place 
Cheered  and  illumed  by  its  accustomed  light  : 

Dim  shadows  the  oppressor's  home  molest. 

Yet  reach  not  the  abode  of  the  opprest. 

And  thus,  when  darkness  wraps  the  worldly  crowd. 
Sad  aliens  from  the  brightness  of  the  word 

Its  sullen  influence  shall  never  shroud 

The  true  and  faithful  servants  of  the  Lord  ; 

Without  them  is  the  dreary  gloom  of  sin. 

But  rays  from  heaven  shall  comfort  them  within. 

False  accusation,  poverty,  reproach. 

Loss  of  loved  friends,  oppression,  slavery,  pain, 
These  darkening  clouds  their  dwellings  may  approach, 

Yet  strive  to  quench  its  holy  light  in  vain  : 
The  flame  shall  brightly  and  securely  shine, 
Kindled  and  cherished  by  a  hand  divine. 

And  when,  amid  the  gloomy  vale  of  death. 
Conscience  the  sinner's  terrors  shall  enhance, 

The  firm  believer  shall,  in  steadfast  faith. 
Walk  in  the  light  of  God's  own  countenance, 

Cast  oflf  his  bondage,  and  amid  the  blest. 

Enjoy  eternal  light — eternal  rest! 


454  MRS.  ABDY. 


THE    WHITE    POPPY. 

Thou  hast  no  power  to  charm  our  eye, 

Or  aid  us  in  our  need, 
Disdainfully  we  pass  thee  by. 

Thou  pale  and  worthless  weed  ! 
Bright  flowers  are  near  thy  dwelling-place. 

And  corn  is  waving  round. 
Thou  dost  but  sadden  and  deface 

This  gay  and  fertile  ground. 

Yet  hold  —  my  censure  I  repress  — 

Thy  wondrous  juice  contains 
A  spell  to  soothe  in  drowsiness. 

The  weary  sufferer's  pains  ; 
He  sighs  for  sleep  —  in  thought  he  shrinks 

From  night's  long  train  of  woes, 
Till  of  thy  lulling  draught  he  drinks. 

And  sinks  to  soft  repose. 

What  were  to  him  the  fragrant  flowers 

That  lavish  Nature  yields, 
What  the  rich  vineyard's  purple  stores. 

The  harvest  of  the  fields? 
Scarce  fruits  improved  by  careful  art, 

Fair  buds  of  varied  dyes. 
How  would  they  mock  his  throbbing  heart. 

How  cheat  his  aching  eyes  ! 

Let  me  no  more  with  erring  sense 

God's  mystic  works  arraign. 
The  mighty  hand  of  Providence 

Hath  nothing  made  in  vain ; 
Nor  need  I  quit  this  lonely  mead 

His  gracious  love  to  scan, 
Since  even  in  a  simple  weed 

I  trace  his  care  for  man. 


MRS.  ABDY.  455 


THE    LANGUAGE.  OF    FLOWERS. 

The  mystic  science  is  not  mine 

That  Eastern  records  teach  ; 
I  cannot  to  each  bud  assign 

A  sentiment  and  speech  ; 
Yet,  when  in  yonder  blossom'd  dell 

I  pass  my  lonely  hours, 
Methinks  my  heart  interprets  well 

The  eloquence  of  flowers. 

Of  life's  first  thoughtless  years  they  tell, 

When  half  my  joy  and  grief 
Dwelt  in  a  lily's  opening  bell, 

A  rosebud's  drooping  leaf — 
I  watched  for  them  the  sun's  bright  rays, 

And  feared  the  driving  showers. 
Types  of  my  girlhood's  radiant  days 

Were  ye,  sweet  transient  flowers. 

And  sadder  scenes  ye  bring  to  mind. 

The  moments  ye  renew 
"When  first  the  woodbine's  wreaths  I  twined, 

A  loved  one's  grave  to  strew ; 
On  the  cold  turf  I  weeping  spread 

My  offering  from  the  bowers, 
Ye  seemed  meet  tribute  to  the  dead, 

Pale,  perishable  flowers. 

Yet  speak  ye  not  alone,  fair  band, 

Of  changefulness  and  gloom, 
Ye  tell  me  of  God's  gracious  hand. 

That  clothes  you  thus  in  bloom. 
And  sends  to  soften  and  to  calm 

A  sinful  world  like  ours. 
Gifts  of  such  purity  and  balm 

As  ye,  fresh  dewy  flowers. 


456  MRS.  ABDY. 


And  while  your  smiling  ranks  I  view, 

In  vivid  colours  drest, 
My  heart,  with  faith  confirmed  and  true, 

Learns  on  the  Lord  to  rest : 
If  He  the  lilies  of  the  field 

With  lavish  glory  dowers. 
Will  he  not  greater  bounties  yield 

To  me,  than  to  the  flowers  ? 

Still,  still  they  speak  —  around  my  track 

Some  faded  blossoms  lie, 
Another  spring  shall  bring  them  back, 

Yet  bring  them,  but  to  die : 
But  we  forsake  this  world  of  strife, 

To  rise  to  nobler  powers. 
And  share  those  gifts  of  endless  life. 

Withheld  from  earth's  frail  flowers. 

0  may  I  bear  your  lessons  hence. 

Fair  children  of  the  sod. 
Yours  is  the  calm  mute  eloquence. 

That  leads  the  thoughts  to  God  : 
And  oft  amid  the  great  and  wise. 

My  heart  shall  seek  these  bowers, 
And  turn  from  man's  proud  colloquies, 

To  commune  with  the  flowers. 


MRS.   SARAH  ELLIS.  457 


MRS.  SARAH  ELLIS. 

Miss  Sarah  Stickney,  now  Mrs.  Ellis,  is  best  known  as  a 
writer  of  prose,  though  entitled  to  no  mean  reputation  as  a  Poet. 
Her  Pictures  of  Private  Life,  Hints  to  make  Home  Happy, 
Women  of  England,  Sons  of  the  Soil,  Poetry  of  Life,  &c.,  have 
been  extremely  popular.  The  only  volume  of  her  Poems  that 
has  fallen  under  our  notice,  is  The  Wild  Irish  Girl,  and  other 
Poems,  published  in  London  and  in  New  York,  in  1844.  Mrs. 
Ellis  resides  at  Pentonville. 

THE    pilgrim's  REST. 

Pilgrim,  why  thy  course  prolong  ? 
Here  are  birds  of  ceaseless  song. 
Here  are  flowers  of  fadeless  bloom. 
Here. are  woods  of  deepest  gloom, 
Cooling  waters  for  thy  feet : 
Pilgrim,  rest ;  repose  is  sweet. 

Tempt  me  not  with  thoughts  of  rest. 
Woods  in  richest  verdure  dressed, 
Scented  flowers  and  murmuring  streams, 
Lull  the  soul  to  fruitless  dreams. 
I  would  seek  some  holy  fane, 
Pure  and  free  from  earthly  stain. 

Based  upon  the  eternal  rock. 
Braving  time  and  tempest's  shock  ; 
Seest  thou  not  yon  temple  grey  ? 
There  thy  weary  steps  may  stay. 
There  thy  lowly  knees  may  bend, 
There  thy  fervent  tears  descend. 
58  pp 


Has  that  temple  stood  the  storm  ? 
Could  no  touch  of  time  deform  ? 
Was  the  altar  there  so  pure, 
That  its  worship  must  endure  ? 
Whence  those  noble  ruins  then  ? 
Why  the  wondering  gaze  of  men  ? 

No.     The  Sybil's  power  is  gone. 
Hushed  is  each  mysterious  tone. 
Closed  the  eye,  whose  upward  gaze 
Read  the  length  of  human  days  ; 
Blindly  darkened  to  her  own, 
Shrine  and  goddess  both  are  gone. 

Onward,  then,  my  feet  must  roam  ; 
Not  for  me  the  marble  dome. 
Not  the  sculptured  column  high. 
Pointing  to  yon  azure  sky. 
Let  the  Heathen  worship  there, 
Not  for  me  that  place  of  prayer. 

Pilgrim,  enter.    Awe  profound 
Waits  thee  on  this  hallowed  ground. 
Here  no  mouldering  columns  fall, 
Here  no  ruin  marks  the  wall ; 
Marble  pure,  and  gilding  gay. 
Woo  thy  sight,  and  win  thy  stay. 

Here  the  priest,  in  sacred  stole 

Welcomes  every  weary  soul. 

Here   what  suppliant  knees  are   bending ! 

Here  what  holy  incense  lending 

Perfume  to  the  ambient  air ! 

Ecstacy  to  praise  and  prayer! 

Pilgrim,  pause  ;  and  view  this  pile. 
Leave  not  yet  the  vaulted  aisle. 
See  what  sculptured  forms  are  here  ! 
See  what  gorgeous  groups  appear  ! 


MRS.   SARAH   ELLIS.  ^  459 


Tints  that  glow,  and  shapes  that  live, 
All  that  art  or  power  can  give  ! 

Hark,  the  solemn  organ  sounds ! 
How  each  echoing  note  rebounds ! 
Now  along  the  arches  high. 
Far  away  it  seems  to  die. 
Now  it  thunders,  deep  and  low, 
Surely  thou  mayst  worship  now. 

Tempt  me  not.     The  scene  is  fair, 
Music  floats  upon  the  air. 
Clouds  of  perfume  round  me  roll ; 
Thoughts  of  rapture  fill  my  soul. 
Tempt  me  not,  I  must  away. 
Here  I  may  not — dare  not  stay. 

Here  amazed  —  entranced  I  stand, 
Human  power  on  every  hand 
Charms  my  senses  —  meets  my  gaze, 
Wraps  me  in  a  wildering  maze. 
But  the  place  of  prayer  for  me. 
Purer  still  than  this  must  be. 

From  the  light  of  southern  skies. 
Where  the  stately  columns  rise  — 
Wanderer  from  the  valleys  green. 
Wherefore  seek  this  wintry  scene  ? 
Here  no  stranger  steps  may  stay. 
Turn  thee,  pilgrim  —  haste  away. 

Here,  what  horrors  meet  thy  sight ! 
Mountain-wastes,  of  trackless  lieight ; 
Where  the  eternal  snows  are  sleeping. 
Where  the  wolf  his  watch  is  keeping, 
While  in  sunless  depths  below, 
See  the  abodes  of  want  and  wo  ! 


460  MRS.   SARAH   ELLIS. 


Here  what  comfort  for  thy  soul ! 
Storm  and  tempest  o'er  thee  roll, 
Spectral  forms  around  thee  rise, 
In  thy  pathway  famine  lies  ; 
All  is   darkness,  doubt,  and  fear, 
Man  is  scarce  thy  brother  here. 

Tempter  —  cease.     Thy  words  are  vain. 
'T  is  no  dream  of  worldly  gain, 
'T  is  no  hope  in  luxury  dressed, 
'T  is  no  thought  of  earthly  rest, 
Earthly  comfort,  or  repose, 
Lures  me  to  these  Alpine  snows. 

I  would  seek,  amid  this  wild. 

Fervent  faith's  devoted  child. 

Holy  light  is  on  his  brow, 

From  his  lips  are  words  that  glow, 

In  his  bosom  depths  of  love 

Filled  from  heaven's  pure  fount  above. 

I  would  follow,  where  his  feet 
Mountain-rocks  and  dangers  meet. 
I  would  join  his  simple  band. 
Linked  together,  heart  and  hand ; 
There  I  fain  would  bend  my  knee, 
'T  is  the  place  of  prayer  for  me  ! 


LOVE  S    EARLY    DREAM. 


Love's  early  dream  has  music 
In  the  tale  it  loves  to  tell ; 

Love's  early  dream  has  roses 
Where  it  delights  to  dwell ; 


I 
MRS.  SARAH  ELLIS.  461 


It  has  beauty  in  its  landscape, 

And  verdure  in  its  trees, 
Unshadowed  by  a  passing  cloud, 

Unruffled  by  a  breeze. 

Love's  early  dream  has  moonlight 

Upon  its  crystal  lake, 
Where  stormy  tempest  never  blows 

Nor  angry  billows  break  ; 
It  has  splendour  in  its  sunshine. 

And  freshness  in  its  dew, 
And  all  its  scenes  of  happiness 

Are  beautiful,  and  —  true  ? 

Love's  early  dream  has  kindness 

In  every  look  and  tone ; 
Love's  early  dream  has  tenderness 

For  one,  and  one  alone. 
It  has  melody  of  language, 

And  harmony  of  thought, 
And  knows  no  sound  of  dissonance 

By  ruder  science  taught. 

Oh  !  early  dream  of  happiness. 

Where  is  thy  waking  bliss  ? 
What  brings  thy  golden  promises 

To  such  a  world  as  this  ? 
Perchance  thou  art  some  shadow 

Of  that  which  is  to  come  — 
The  fluttering  of  an  angel's  wings. 

To  lead  the  wanderer  home, 
pp* 


462  MARIA  JANE  JEWSBURY. 


MARIA.  JANE  JEWSBURY.— (MRS.  FLETCHER.) 

The  late  Mrs.  Fletcher,  better  known  by  her  maiden  name  of 
Maria  Jane  Jevvsbury,  was  born  in  Warwickshire,  and  wrote  at 
an  early  age,  Phantasmagoria,  or  Essays  of  Life  and  Litera- 
ture, which  was  followed  by  Letters  to  the  Young,  L^ays  for 
Leisure  Hours,  and  Her  Three  Histories.  She  died  in  Bombay, 
in  1833,  having  left  England  for  that  country  soon  after  her 
marriage,  with  her  husband,  who  was  an  officer  of  the  East 
India  Company. 

THE     LOST    SPIRIT. 
«  No  man  cared  for  my  soul." — Psalm  cxlii.  4. 

Weep,  Sire,  with  shame  and  ruin, 
Weep  for  thy  child's  undoing  ! 
For  the  days  when  I  was  young. 
And  no  prayer  was  taught  my  tongue; 
Nor  the  record  from  on  high, 
Of  the  life  that  cannot  die : 
Wiles  of  the  world  and  men  — 
Of  their  threescore  years  and  ten; 
Earthly  profit  —  human  praise, 
Thou  didst  set  before  my  gaze, 
As  the  guiding  stars  of  life. 
As  the  meed  of  toil  and  strife ; 

I  ran  the  world's  race  well. 

And  find  my  guerdon  —  Hell  ! 

Weep,  Mother,  weep  —  yet  know 
'T  will  not  shorten  endless  wo. 
Nor  thy  prayer  unbind  my  chain, 
Thy  repentance  soften  pain, 


MARIA   JANE   JEWSBURY.  403 


Nor  the  life-blood  of  thy  frame, 
For  one  moment  quencli  this  flame  ! 
Weep  not  beside  my  tomb, 
That  is  gentle,  painless  gloom  ; 
Let  the  worm  and  darkness  prey 
On  ray  senseless  slumbering  clay  ; 
Weep  for  the  priceless  gem 
That  may  not  hide  with  them ; 
Weep  the  lost  spirit's  fate, 
Yet  know  thy  tears  too  late  : — 

Had  they  sooner  fallen  —  well, 

/  had  not  wept  in  Hell  ! 

Physician,  canst  thou  weep  ? 
Then  let  tears  thy  pillow  steep : 
Couldst  thou  view  Time's  nearing  wave, 
Doomed  to  whelm  me  in  its  grave  ; 
The  last  and  lessening  space, 
My  life's  brief  hour  of  grace, 
Yet  with  gay,  unfaltering  tongue. 
Promise  health  and  sojourn  long? 
On  the  brink  of  that  profound 
Without  measure,  depth,  or  bound, 
View  me  busied  with  the  toys 
Of  a  world  of  shadowy  joys  ? 
Oh,  had  look,  or  sign,  or  breath, 
Then  whispered  aught  of  death  ; 
Though  nature  in  tlie  strife. 
Had  loosed  her  hold  on  life, 
And  the  worm  received  its  prey 
Perchance  an  earlier  day  — 

This  —  this  —  and  who  can  tell 
That  I  had  dwelt  in  Hell  ! 

False  Prophet,  faltering  Priest, 
Full  fraught  with  mirth  and  feast ! 
Thy  weeping  should  not  fail 
But  with  life's  dark-ended  tale  ! 


464  MARIA   JANE   JEWSBURY. 

For  the  living —  for  the  dead  — 
There  is  guilt  upon  thy  head  ! 
Thou  didst  make  the  "  narrow  way," 
As  the  broad  one,  smooth  and  gay ; 
So  speak  in  accents  bland 
Of  the  bright  and  better  land. 
That  the  soul  unchanged  within, 
The  sinner  in  his  sin, 
Of  God  and  Christ  unshriven, 
Lay  down  with  dreams  of  heaven  ! 
False  Priest,  thy  labours  tell, 
I  dreamed  —  and  woke  in  Hell  ! 


THE  DYING  GIRL  TO  HER  MOTHER. 

My  mother  !  look  not  on  me  now 

With  that  sad  earnest  eye  ; 
Blame  me  not,  mother,  blame  not  thou 

My  heart's  last  wish —  to  die  ! 
I  cannot  wrestle  with  the  strife 

I  once  had  heart  to  bear ; 
And  if  I  yield  a  youthful  life. 

Full  hath  it  been  of  care. 

Nay,  weep  not !  on  my  brow  is  set 

The  age  of  grief — not  years  ; 
Its  furrows  thou  may'st  wildly  wet. 

But  ne'er  wash  out  with  tears. 
And  couldst  thou  see  my  weary  heart. 

Too  weary  e'en  to  sigh. 
Oh  !  mother,  mother  !  thou  wouldst  start, 

And  say,  "  'T  were  best  to  die  !" 

I  know  't  is  summer  on  the  earth  — 
I  hear  a  pleasant  tune 


J 


MARIA  JANE  JEWSBURY.  465 


Of  waters  in  their  chiming  mirth  — 

I  feel  the  breath  of  June  : 
The  roses  through  my  lattice  look, 

The  bee  goes  singing  by, 
The  peasant  takes  his  harvest-hook,— 

Yet,  mother,  let  me  die  ! 

There's  nothing  in  this  time  of  flowers 

That  hath  a  voice  for  me  : 
The  whispering  leaves,  the  sunny  hours, 

The  bright,  the  glad,  the  free  ! 
There  's  nothing  but  thy  own  deep  love, 

And  that  will  live  on  high  ! 
Then,  mother,  when  my  heart's  above, 

Kind  mother,  let  me  die  ! 


A    DREAM    OF    THE    FUTURE. 

A  new  age  expands 
Its  white  and  holy  wings,  above  the  peaceful  lands.  —  Bryant. 

It  was  not  in  a  curtained  bed. 

When  winter  storms  were  howling  dread, 

This  pleasant  dream  I  knew  ; — 
But  in  the  golden  month  of  June, 
Beneath  the  bright  and  placid  moon, 

In  slumber  soft  as  dew 

Alone,  in  a  green  and  woody  dell. 

Where  the  lovely  light  of  the  moonbeams  fell, 

With  soft  sheen  on  tlie  grass  ; 
Still,  except  when  a  wandering  breeze 
Stirring  the  boughs  of  the  beechen  trees, 

Made  shadows  come  and  pass. 
59 


Silent  —  but  for  the  midnight  bird 
That  makes  the  spot  where'er  't  is  heard 

With  spell  and  sorcery  fraught ; 
Filling  the  mind  with  imaged  things 
Of  dreams,  and  melodies,  and  wings, 

The  faery-land  of  thought. 

The  flowers  had  folded  up  their  hues, 
But  their  odours  mixed  with  air  and  dews 

Made  it  a  bliss  to  breathe  ; 
How  could  I  choose  but  dream  that  night, 
With  a  bower  above  of  bloom  and  light, 

A  mossy  couch  beneath  ? 

I  dreamt  —  and  of  this  world  of  woe, 
This  very  world  of  gloom  and  show, 

Where  love  and  beauty  cease  ; 
This  world  wherein  all  fair  is  frail, 
And  but  wrong  and  sorrow  never  fail, 

Changed  to  a  world  of  peace. 

And  yet  remained  it  as  of  old. 
Peopled  by  men  of  human  mould, 

To  human  feelings  wed  ; 
Yet,  was  their  traffic  in  the  town, 
Yet,  wore  the  king  his  glittering  crown, 

And  peasants  earned  their  bread. 

And  day  and  night  were  then  as  now, 
And  the  stars  on  heaven's  mighty  brow, 

Twinkled  their  sleepless  eyes  ; 
Like  watchers  sent  by  the  absent  sun, 
To  look  on  all  things  said  and  done, 

'Till  he  again  arise. 

Spring  with  its  promise  went  and  came, 
And  Summer  with  its  breath  of  flame, 
Flushing  the  earth  with  flowers  ; 


MARIA   JANE   JEWSBURY.  467 


And  Autumn  like  a  sorcerer  bold, 
Transmuting  by  his  touch  to  gold, 
The  fruitage  of  the  bowers. 

Earth  still  but  knew  an  earthly  lot ; 
Yet  'twas  a  changed  and  charmed  spot, 

Where'er  the  free  foot  trod  ; 
For  now  no  longer  crime  and  sin. 
Like  cratered  fires  its  breast  wilhin. 

Flamed  forth  against  its  God. 

The  curse  that  chained  its  strength  was  gone, 
And  pleasantly  in  order  shone 

The  seasons  into  life, 
With  only  Winter  plucked  away. 
And  heat  and  cold  in  tempered  sway, 

Nature  no  more  at  strife. 

The  pole  had  Eden-wealth  of  flowers. 
The  tropic  —  noons  of  breezy  hours, 

The  seamen  feared  no  storm  ; 
The  traveller  far  from  haunts  of  men. 
Slept  dreadless  near  the  lion's  den ; 

Nor  did  the  serpent's  form 

With  its  splendid  coat  of  many  dyes. 
Bid  hate  and  fear  alternate  rise. 

For  in  the  peace  prepared,— 
The  holy  peace  that  upward  ran, 
From  man  to  God,  from  beast  to  man, 

Even  the  serpent  shared. 

No  clarion  stirred  the  quiet  air. 
No  banner  with  its  meteor-glare 

The  playful  breezes  saw  ; 
Unknown  the  warrior's  battle-blade, 
And  judge  in  gloomy  pomp  arrayed. 

For  love  alone  was  law. 


468  MARIA  JANE  JEWSBURY. 


There  might  be  tears  on  childhood's  cheek, 
But  few,  and  passionless,  and  meek. 

For  strife  of  soul  was  dead  ; 
And  every  smile  with  love  Avas  fraught, 
And  glance  of  eye,  spoke  glance  of  thought. 

Far  off  deceit  and  dread. 

Shrined  in  the  bosom  of  the  seas 
Like  gardens  of  Hesperides, 

Lay  each  beloved  land. 
Inhabited  by  peaceful  men. 
Each  happy  in  his  calling  then. 

In  city,  vale,  or  strand. 

For  poverty  and  greatness  knew 
Their  brotherhood  —  and  service  true 

Each  from  the  other  won  ; 
The  slave  looked  on  his  broken  chain, 
And  with  a  spirit  freed  from  pain, 

Smiled  upward  on  the  sun. 

It  was  a  holy,  holy  time ! 

The  soul  like  nature  reached  its  prime, 

And  grew  an  angel-thing: 
A  paradise  of  blissful  thought  — 
A  fountain  never-fearing  drought, 

A  palace  —  God  its  King. 

It  was  a  holy  time  ;  no  sight 
But  wore  an  aspect  of  delight, 

Peace  was  in  every  sound  ; 
Peace  in  the  song  for  the  blissful  wed. 
Peace  in  the  chaunt  for  the  tranquil  dead. 

The  buried  and  the  crowned. 

And  ever  rose  on  the  swelling  breeze, 
From  hamlets  poor  and  palaces. 
Cities  and  lonely  ways, 


MARIA  JANE  JEWSBURY.  469 


Pealing  through  all  earth's  pulses  strong, 
Like  the  roar  of  ocean  turned  to  song, 
A  hymn  of  lofty  praise. 

And  Death,  with  light  and  loving  hand, 
Marshalled  with  smiles  his  radiant  band 

Into  a  higher  sphere. 
Even  as  a  shepherd  kind  and  old 
Calleth  at  night  his  flock  to  fold, 

With  strains  of  music  clear. 

Thus  dreamt  I  through  the  live-long  night. 
Till  the  freshened  breeze  of  morning  bright. 

Sleep  from  my  eyelids   shook  ; 
And  then  with  thoughts  where  joy  held  sway. 
And  longings  bright  —  my  musing  way 

Back  to  the  world  I  took. 


470  LADY  FLORA   HASTINGS. 


LADY   FLORA   HASTINGS. 

This  accomplished  woman  was  the  eldest  daughter  of  Francis, 
Marquis  of  Hastings,  and  was  born  in  February,  1806.  Her 
learning  and  abilities  made  her  a  favourite  in  the  most  intellec- 
tual society  of  Great  Britain  and  the  continent,  and,  with  the 
advantages  of  her  birth,  secured  for  her  the  appointment  of 
Lady  of  the  Bed-chamber  to  the  Duchess  of  Kent.  While  she 
was  in  this  position,  a  disease,  (enlargement  of  the  liver,)  caused 
her  death,  on  the  5th  of  July,  1839.  A  collection  of  her  Poems 
was  published  soon  after,  by  her  sister. 

THE    CROSS    OF    VASCO    DA    GAMA. 

We  have  breasted  the  surge,  we  have  furrow'd  the  wave, 
We  have  spread  the  white  sail  to  the  favouring  breeze  ; 
We  have  sped  from  the  land  of  the  fair  and  the  brave, 
Widely  to  wander  o'er  untried  seas. 
There  is  hope  in  our  hearts,  there  is  joy  on  our  brow, 
For  the  bright  cross  is  beaming  before  us  now  ! 

Sadly  we  swept  through  the  sounding  deep. 
Sadly  we  thought  of  our  distant  home  — 
Of  the  land  where  our  fathers'  aslies  sleep, 
Of  the  land  where  our  fairy  children  roam. 
Brothers  !  our  sad  tears  must  cease  to  flow. 
For  the  bright  cross  is  beaming  before  us  now  ! 

Spread  we  the  sail  to  the  winged  wind  — 
Hail  to  the  waves  of  the  southern  sea ! 
Deep  is  the  furrow  we  leave  behind. 
As  we  dash  through  the  waters  merrily ; 


LADY   FLORA    HASTINGS. 


471 


And  snowy  the  spray  round  our  lofty  prow, 
For  the  bright  cross  is  beaming  before  us  now  ! 

Cross  of  the  south,  in  the  deep  blue  heaven  — 
Herald  of  mercy,  thy  form  hath  shone ! 
Gladly  we  welcome  the  presage  given  — 
The  land,  the  fair  land  of  the  south  is  our  own  ; 
And  mildly  the  light  of  true  faith  shall  glow, 
For  the  bright  cross  is  beaming  before  us  now  ! 


THE    SWAN    SONG. 

Grieve  not  that  I  die  young.  —  Is  it  not  well 
To  pass  away  ere  life  hath  lost  its  brightness  ? 
Bind  me  no  longer,  sisters,  with  the  spell 
Of  love  and  your  kind  words.     List  ye  to  me  : 
Here  I  am  bless'd  —  but  I  would  be  more  free; 
I  would  go  forth  in  all  my  spirit's  lightness. 
Let  me  depart ! 

Ah !  who  would  linger  till  bright  eyes  grow  dim, 
Kind  voices  mute,  and  faithful  bosoms  cold  ? 
Till  carking  care,  and  coil,  and  anguish  grim. 
Cast  their  dark  shadows  o'  er  this  faery  world; 
Till  fancy's  many-colour'd  wings  are  furl'd. 
And  all,  save  the  proud  spirit,  waxeth  old  ? 
I  would  depart ! 

Thus  would  I  pass  away  —  yielding  my  soul 
A  joyous  thank-offering  to  Him  who  gave 
That  soul  to  be,  those  starry  orbs  to  roll. 
Thus  —  thus  exullingly  would  I  depart, 
Song  on  my  lips,  ecstacy  in  my  heart. 
Sisters  —  sweet  sisters,  bear  me  to  my  grave  — 
Let  me  depart ! 


472  MARY  ANNE  BROWNE. 


MARY  ANNE  BROWNE,  (MRS.  GRAY.) 

Mary  Anne  Browne  was  born  in  Maiden  Head,  Berkshire, 
in  1812.  In  1827  she  published  Mont  Blanc,  in  1828  Ma: 
in  1829  Repentance;  in  1834  77/6  Coronal;  in  1836  The  Birth 
Day  Gift;  and  in  1839  Ignatia ;  and  she  was  a  frequent  con- 
tributor to  the  Dublin  University  Magazine,  and  other  British 
Periodicals,  and  to  The  Lady's  Companion,  and  The  Knicker- 
bocker Magazine  in  the  United  States.  From  1830  to  1842  she 
resided  most  of  her  time  in  Liverpool,  to  which  city  her  father 
removed  in  the  former  year.  In  1842  she  was  married  to  Mr. 
James  Gray,  a  Scottish  gentleman,  and  she  died  in  Cork  in  1844. 
Her  poems  are  distinguished  for  grace  and  tenderness,  a  ready 
command  of  poetical  imagery,  and  a  taste  delicately  skilled  in  the 
harmonies  of  language. 


THE   EMBROIDERESS    AT    MIDNIGHT. 

She  plies  her  needle  till  the  lamp 

Is  waxing  pale  and  dim; 
She  hears  the  watchman's  heavy  tramp, 

And  she  must  watch  like  him :  — 
Her  hands  are  dry,  her  forehead  damp. 

Her  dark  eyes  faintly  swim. 

Look  on  her  work  !  —  here  blossom  flowers, 

The  lily  and  the  rose, 
Bright  as  the  gems  of  summer  hours. 

But  not  to  die  like  those  ; 
Here,  fadeless  as  in  Eden's  bowers, 

For  ever  they  repose. 


MARY  ANNE  BROWNE.  473 

Once,  maiden,  thou  wast  fresh  and  fair 

As  those  sweet  flowers  of  thine  ; 
Now,  shut  from  sunny  light  and  air, 

How  canst  thou  choose  but  pine  ? 
Neglected  flows  thy  raven  hair, 

Like  the  uncultured  vine. 

Look  on  her  work  !  —  no  common  mind 

Arranged  that  glowing  group  — 
Wild  wreaths  the   stately  roses  bind. 

Sweet  bells  above  them  droop  — 
Ye  almost  see  the  sportive  wind 

Parting  the  graceful  troop  ! 

Look  on  her  work  !  —  but  look  the  more 

On  her  unwearied  heart, 
And  put  aside  the  chamber-door 

That  doth  the  daughter  part 
From  that  dear  mother,  who  before 

Taught  her  this  cunning  art. 

She  sleeps  —  that  mother,  sick  and  pale  — 

She  sleeps  —  and  little  deems 
That  she,  who  doth  her  features  veil, 

All  day,  in  flitting  gleams 
Of  anxious  hope,  this  hour  doth  hail, 

But  not  for  happy  dreams. 

God  bless  her  in  her  lone  employ, 

And  fill  those  earnest  eyes 
With  visions  of  the  coming  joy. 

Waiting  her  sacrifice, 
When  they,  who  give  her  this  employ, 

Pay  her  its  stinted  price  ! 

Think  how  her  trembling  hand  will  clasp 
The  treasure  it  will  hold, 
60  <*<i* 


With  that  which  seems  a  greedy  grasp 

Yet  not  for  love  of  gold  : 
That  look  —  that  sigh's  relieving  gasp, 

Its  deeper  springs  unfold. 

Think  how  her  hasty  feet  will  roam 

The  market  and  the  street, 
To  purchase  for  her  humble  home 

The  food  and  clothing  meet, 
And  with  what  gladness  she  will  come 

Back  to  this  poor  retreat ! 

Poor  maiden  !    if  the  fair  ones  who 
Thy  graceful  'broidery  buy, 

Only  one-half  thy  struggles  knew, 
And  filial  piety, 

Methinks  some  drop  of  pity's  dew 
Would  gem  the  proudest  eye  ! 

It  is  not  here  its  full  reward 
Thy  gentle  heart  will  prove  ; 

Here  ever  must  th}'  lot  be  hard. 
But  there  is  One  above 

Who  sees,  and  will  not  disregard, 
Thy  consecrated  love. 


THE    BRIDEGROOM    TO    HIS    BRIDE. 

Four  years  ago,  dear  love. 

And  we  were  strangers ;  in  a  distant  land 

Long  had  it  been  my  lonely  lot  to  rove; 

And  I  had  never  touched  that  gentle  hand. 

Or  looked  into  the  lustre  of  those  eyes, 

Or  heard  that  voice  of  lovely  melodies, 


MARY  ANNE  BROWNE.  475 


Winning  its  way  unto  the  listener's  heart, 
And  gladdening  it,  as  a  fresh  stream  doth  part 
The  grass  and  flowers,  and  beautifies  its  road 
With  fresher  hues,  by  its  sweet  tides  bestowed. 
Tlien  I  had  never  heard  that  name  of  thine, 
Which  in  this  blessed  day  hath  merged  in  mine! 

Three  years  ago,  mine  own ! 
And  we  had  met — 'twas  but  acquaintanceship; 

There  was  no  tremour  in  the  courteous  tone 
Which,  greeting  thee,  flowed  freely  to  my  lip 

At  each  new  interview.     Thy  beauty  seemed 

Indeed  the  very  vision  I  had  dreamed 
Of  woman's  loveliest  form,  but  that  it  shrined 
So  bright  a  gem,  so  true  and  pure  a  mind, 
I  did  not  early  learn  ;  for  thou  art  one 
Whose  gentle,  kindly  actions  ever  shun 
The  glare  of  day.     I  knew  not  then  the  power 
That  seems  thy  richest  gift  at  this  blest  hour. 

Another  year  went  by, 
And  we  were  friends  !  —  "dear  friends"  we  called  each  other 

We  said  our  bosoms  throbbed  in  sympathy, 
That  we  were  like  a  sister  and  a  brother. 

Ah  !  but  do  brothers'  hearts  thrill  through  each  chord, 

At  a  dear  sister's  smile  or  gracious  word  ? 
Do  sisters  blush,  and  strive  the  blush  to  hide, 
When  a  fond  brother  lingers  at  their  side  ? 
Do  friends,  and  nothing  more,  shrink  from  surmise. 
And  dread  to  meet  the  keen  world's  scrutinies. 
And  tremble  with  a  vague  and  groundless  shame. 
And  start  when  each  doth  hear  the  other's  name  ? 

One  little  year  ago. 
And  we  were  lovers  —  lovers  pledged  and  vowed  — 
The  unsealed  fountains  of  our  hearts  might  flow  : 
Our  summer  happiness  had  scarce  a  cloud. 


476  MARY  ANNE  BROWNE. 

We  smiled  to  think  upon  the  dubious  past, 
How  could  so  long  our  self-delusion  last  ? 
We  laughed  at  our  own  fears,  whose  dim  array- 
One  spoken  word  of  love  had  put  away. 
In  love's  full-blessed  confidence  we  talked, 
We  heeded  not  who  watched  us  as  we  walked ; 
And  day  by  day  hath  that  affection  grown, 
Until  this  happy  morn  that  makes  us  one. 

Beloved!   'tis  the  day. 
The  summer  day,  to  which  our  hearts  have  turned, 

As  to  a  haven  that  before  them  lay  — 
A  haven  dim  and  distantly  discerned. 

Now  we  have  reached  it,  and  our  onward  gaze 
Must  henceforth  be  beyond  earth's  fleeting  days, 
Unto  a  better  home,  when  having  loved 
One  more  than  e'en  each  other — having  proved 
Faithful  to  Him,  and  faithful  to  the  vow 
That  in  our  hearts  is  echoing  even  now, 
We  two  shall  dwell  His  glorious  throne  before, 
With  souls,  not  bound,  but  blended  evermore. 


SARA  COLERIDGE. 


In  the  beautiful  story  of  Phantasmlon,  which  is  all  poetry 
though  partly  in  the  form  of  prose,  Mrs.  Coleridge  has  vindicated 
her  right  to  a  high  rank  among  the  female  poets  of  England. 


SONG. 

Many  a  fountain  cool  and  shady 
May  the  traveller's  eye  invite  ; 
One  among  them  all,  sweet  Lady, 
Seems  to  flow  for  his  delight; 
In  many  a  tree  the  wilding  bee 
Might  safely  hide  her  honey'd  store  ; 
One  hive  alone  the  bee  will  own, 
She  may  not  trust  her  sweets  to  more. 

Say'st  thou,  "  Can  that  maid  be  fairer? 
Shows  her  lip  a  livelier  dye  ? 
Hath  she  treasures  richer,  rarer  ? 
Can  she  better  love  than  I  ?"  — 
What  form'd  the  spell  I  ne'er  could  tell, 
But  subtle  must  its  working  be. 
Since,  from  the  hour  I  felt  its  pow'r, 
No  fairer  face  I  wish  to  see. 
Light-wing'd  Zephyr,  ere  he  settles 
On  the  loveliest  flower  that  blows. 
Never  stays  to  count  thy  petals. 
Dear,  delicious,  fragrant  Rose ! 
Her  features  bright  elude  my  sight, 
I  know  not  how  her  tresses  lie  ; 
In  fancy's  maze  my  spirit  plays. 
When  she  with  all  her  charms  is  nigh. 


478  MRS.    SARA   COLERIDGE. 


FALSE    LOVE. 

False  Love,  too  long  thou  hast  delay'd, 

Too  late  I  make  my  choice; 

Yet  win  for  me  that  precious  maid, 

And  bid  my  heart  rejoice  — 

Then  shall  mine  eyes  shoot  youthful  fire, 

My  cheek  with  triumph  glow. 

And  other  maids  that  glance  desire 

Which  I  on  one  bestow. 

Make  her  with  smile  divinely  bland 

Beam  sunshine  o'er  my  face, 

And  Time  shall  touch  with  gentlest  hand 

What  she  hath  deign'd  to  grace  ; 

O'er  scanty  locks  full  wreaths  I  '11  wear. 

No  wrinkled  brow  to  shade. 

Her  joy  will  smooth  the  furrows  there 

Which  earlier  griefs  have  made. 

Though  sports  of  youth  be  tedious  toil 

When  youth  has  pass'd  away, 

I  '11  cast  aside  the  martial  spoil 

With  her  light  locks  to  play  : 

Yea,  turn,  sweet  Maid,  from  tented  fields 

To  rove  where  dewdrops  shine, 

Nor  care  what  hand  the  sceptre  wields, 

So  thou  wilt  grant  me  thine  ! 


One  face  alone,  one  face  alone, 

These  eyes  require ; 
But  when  that  long'd-for  sight  is  shown, 
What  fatal  fire 
Shoots  thro'  my  veins  a  keen  and  liquid  flame, 
That  melts  each  fibre  of  my  wasting  frame  ! 


MRS.  SARA   COLERIDGE.  479 


One  voice. alone,  one  voice  alone, 

I  pine  to  hear  ; 
But  when  its  meek,  mellifluous  tone 
Usurps  mine  ear, 
Those  slavish  chains  about  my  soul  are  wound. 
Which  ne'er,  till  death  itself,  can  be  unbound. 

One  gentle  hand,  one  gentle  hand, 

I  fain  would  hold  ; 
But  when  it  seems  at  my  command, 
My  own  grows  cold  ; 
Then  low  to  earth  I  bend  in  sickly  swoon, 
Like  lilies  drooping  mid  the  blaze  of  noon. 


480  MISS  ELIZA  COOK. 


MISS  ELIZA  COOK. 

It  is  scarcely  necessary  to  say  that  this  lady  is  a  living  writer  of 
great  celebrity.  By  the  simple  force  of  genius,  and  without  any 
aid  from  adventitious  circumstances,  Miss  Cook  has  pushed  her 
way  into  the  front  rank  of  female  talent,  and  stands  acknowledged 
as  one  of  the  most  attractive  writers  of  song  in  our  literature. 

If  I  may  venture  to  express  somewhat  plainly  my  estimate  of 
Miss  Cook's  powers,  I  would  say  of  her  that  hers  is  one  of  those 
strong,  true-seeing,  fearless  souls,  which,  disdaining  the  aids  of 
artificial  refinement,  and  careless  alike  of  censure  and  applause, 
present  their  thoughts  in  their  first  shape  to  the  world,  and  give 
free,  bold  utterance  to  every  sentiment  and  feeling  that  they  ex- 
perience. There  is  no  bowing  to  established  opinion,  no  depre- 
cation of  criticism,  no  respect  for  conventionalism,  in  Miss  Cook  ; 
and  I  for  one  highly  admire  and  honour  so  frank  and  fearless  and 
honest  a  writer. 

Miss  Cook  has,  I  think,  the  boldest  spirit  of  any  Poetess  in 
our  language.  Her  single  example  goes  far  to  prove  that  there 
is  no  sexuality  in  soul.  I  do  not  know  a  more  unsexual  style 
than  hers.  And  the  remark  applies  as  much  to  the  sentiment, 
too.  The  subjects  of  her  verse,  the  thoughts  it  embodies,  and  the 
language  in  which  she  expresses  herself,  are  all  of  the  same  free, 
sinewy,  large,  and  massive  nature.  There  is  no  timidity,  no 
reserve,  no  rounding-off"  in  her  poetry  ;  but  it  is  plain,  and  terse, 
and  energetic,  and  muscular.  It  might  all  have  been  written  by  a 
man ;  and  not  better  written  either.  She  has  a  man's  sense  of 
freedom;  a  man's  self-reliance  ;  a  man's  sceptical  spirit ;  a  man's 
wide, grasping,  general,  original  vision;  and  to  these  qualities  she 
adds  the  quick  instinctive  perceptions,  the  pure  love  of  Beauty, 
and  the  ardent,  sensitive  affectionateness  which  so  eminently 
distinguish  woman. 

As  a  sample  of  her  sense  of  freedom,  I  quote 


THE    GIPSY  S    TENT. 


Our  fire  on  the  turf,  and  our  tent  'neath  the  tree, 

Carousing  by  moonlight,  how  merry  are  we ! 

Let  the  lord  boast  his  castle,  the  baron  his  hall, 

But  the  house  of  the  gipsy  is  widest  of  all : 

We  may  shout  o'er  our  cups,  and  laugh  loud  as  we  will, 

Till  echo  rings  back  from  wood,  welkin,  and  hill ; 

No  joy  seems  to  us  like  the  joys  that  are  lent 

To  the  wanderer's  life,  and  the  gipsy's  tent. 

Some  crime  and  much  folly  may  fall  to  our  lot. 

We  have  sins,  and  pray  where  is  the  one  who  has  not? 

We  are  rogues,  arrant  rogues  ;   yet  remember  !  't  is  rare 

We  take  but  from  those  who  can  very  well  spare  ; 

You  may  tell  us  of  deeds  justly  branded  with  shame. 

But  if  great  ones  heard  truth  you  would  tell  them  the  same. 

And  there  's  many  a  king  would  have  less  to  repent, 

If  his  throne  were  as  pure  as  the  gipsy's  tent. 

Pant  ye  for  beauty  ?    Oh,  where  would  ye  seek 
Such  bloom  as  is  found  on  the  tawny  one's  cheek  ? 
Our  limbs  that  go  bounding  in  freedom  and  health. 
Are  worth  all  your  pale  faces  and  coffers  of  wealth  : 
There  are  none  to  control  us  :  we  rest  or  we  roam  ; 
Our  will  is  our  law,  and  the  world  is  our  home  : 
Even  Jove  would  repine  at  his  lot  if  he  spent 
A  night  of  wild  glee  in  the  gipsy's  tent. 

I  have  more  than  once  heard  it  said  that  the  essential,  some- 
what scornful,  freedom  of  thought  and  verse  which  is  apparent  in 
our  author's  works,  is  scarcely  what  we  have  been  taught  to  look 
for  in  a  female  writer.  It  is  pleasing,  such  critics  say,  from  its 
piquancy :  but  that  it  is  consistent  with  the  common  idea  of  the 
female  character,  they  exceedingly  doubt.  It  seems  to  be  generally, 
and  1  think  jusdy,  held,  that  the  female  mind  is  intrinsically  less 
61  RR 


482  MISS  ELIZA   COOK. 


radical,  less  revolutionary,  than  the  male  mind :  and  that  it  is  far 
more  disposed  to  acquiesce  in  the  customs  and  conventions  of 
society.  But  while  I  grant  that  we  often  find  our  fair  author 
chanting  the  praises  of  gipsy  lawlessness,  and  often  unfashiona- 
bly  democratic,  I  perceive  on  the  other  hand  no  lack  of  that 
beautiful  conservatism  which  so  gracefully  distinguishes  woman, 
and  which  acts  as  so  important  a  curb  upon  the  levelling, 
destroying  tendency  of  the  rougher  sex. 

For  myself,  I  highly  admire  Miss  Cook's  free  spirit.  I  see  in 
it  a  true  originality,  and  an  evidence  of  conscious  strength.  I 
look  upon  her  as  one  of  the  best  and  most  powerful  of  all  our 
female  poets,  and  one  who  is  greatly  raising  and  purifying  our 
estimate  of  woman's  mind.  She  has  by  her  example  disproved 
the  long  prevalent  dogma,  that  the  female  soul  cannot  rise  above 
the  trifling,  minute,  and  evanescent  affairs  of  life  ;  and  has  clearly 
shown  that  when  the  mind  of  woman  is  emancipated  from  its 
petty  restraints,  and  lifted  above  life's  conventionalisms,  it  is  at 
least  as  strong  in  essence,  and  as  striking  in  its  developments,  as 
the  mind  of  the  male. 

Amongst  the  prominent  characteristics  of  Miss  Cook's  genius, 
the  sound,  healthy,  cheerful  nature  of  her  philosophy,  stands  with 
the  first.  Female  writers  too  frequently  indulge  in  pensive, 
melancholy,  morbid  views  of  life,  and  thus  tend  rather  to  lower 
than  to  raise  our  estimate  of  humanity  and  nature.  But  Miss 
Cook  is  for  making  us  happy.  The  bright  side  of  our  destiny  is 
what  she  loves  to  dwell  on,  and  she  often  urges  her  cheerful  views 
with  the  happiest  eff'ect.  I  do  not  know  where  to  find  a  better 
instance  of  this  than  in  her  Poem  called 

THE    WORLD. 

Talk  who  will  of  the  world  as  a  desert  of  thrall, 

Yet,  yet  there  is  bloom  on  the  waste  ; 
Though  the  chalice  of  Life  hath  its  acid  and  gall. 

There  are  honey-drops,  too,  for  the  taste. 

We  murmur  and  droop  should  a  sorrow-cloud  stay, 
And  note  all  the  shades  of  our  lot; 


But  the  rich  rays  of  sunshine  that  brighten  our  way, 
Are  bask'd  in,  enjoy'd  and  forgot. 

Those  who  look  on  Mortality's  ocean  aright, 
Will  not  mourn  o'er  each  billow  that  rolls  ; 

But  dwell  on  the  beauties,  the  glories,  the  might, 
As  much  as  the  shipwrecks  and  shoals. 

How  thankless  is  he  who  remembers  alone 

All  the  bitter,  the  drear  and  the  dark  ; 
Though  the  raven  may  scare  with  its  woe-boding  tone, 

Do  we  ne'er  hear  the  song  of  the  lark? 

We  may  utter  farewell  when  't  is  torture  to  part, 

But  in  meeting  the  dear  one  again 
Have  we  never  rejoic'd  with  that  wildness  of  heart 

Which  outbalances  ages  of  pain  ? 

Who  hath  not  had  moments  so  laden  with  bliss. 

When  the  soul  in  its  fulness  of  love, 
Would  waver  if  bidden  to  choose  between  this 

And  the  paradise  promised  above  ? 

Though  the  eye  may  be  dimmed  with  its  grief-drop  awhile, 

And  the  whiten'd  lip  sigh  forth  its  fear, — 
Yet  pensive  indeed  is  that  face  where  the  smile 

Is  not  oftener  seen  than  the  tear  ! 

There  are  times  when  the  storm-gust  may  rattle  around, 
There  are  spots  where  the  poison-shrub  grows. 

Yet  are  there  not  homes  where  nought  else  can  be  found 
But  the  southwind,  the  sunshine,  and  rose? 

O  haplessly  rare  is  the  portion  that 's  ours, 

And  strange  is  the  path  that  we  take, — 
If  there  spring  not  beside  us  a  few  precious  flowers. 

To  soften  the  thorn  and  the  brake. 


484  MISS  ELIZA   COOK. 


The  wail  of  regret,  the  rude  clashing  of  strife, 
The  soul's  harmony  often  may  mar, — 

But  I  think  we  must  own,  in  the  discord  of  Life, 
'T  is  ourselves  that  oft  waken  the  jar. 

Earth  is  not  all  fair,  yet  it  is  not  all  gloom  ; 

And  the  voice  of  the  grateful  will  tell 
That  He  who  allotted  Pain,  Deaih,  and  the  Tomb, 

Gave  Hope,  Health,  and  the  Bridal,  as  well. 

Should  Fate  do  its  worst,  and  my  spirit  oppress'd. 
O'er  its  own  shatter'd  happiness  pine, — 

Let  me  witness  the  joy  in  another's  glad  breast. 
And  some  pleasure  must  kindle  in  mine  ! 

Then  say  not  the  world  is  a  desert  of  thrall, 
There  is  bloom,  there  is  light,  on  the  waste ; 

Though  the  chalice  of  Life  hath  its  acid  and  gall, 
There  are  honey-drops,  too,  for  the  taste. 


If  further  evidence  of  Miss  Cook's  cheerful  spirit  be  needed, 
we  may  find  it  in  the  following  fine  Song. 


WE    LL    SING    ANOTHER    CHRISTMAS    SONG. 

We  '11  sing  another  Christmas  song,  for  who  shall  ever  tire 
To  hear  the  olden  ballad  theme  around  a  Christmas  fire  ? 
We  '11  sing  another  Christmas  song,  and  pass  the  wassail  cup. 
For  fountains  that  refresh  the  heart  should  never  be  dried  up. 
Ne'er  tell  us  that  each  Yule  tide  brings  more  silver  to  our  hair  : 
Time  seldom  scatters  half  the  snow  that  quickly  gathers  there. 
The  goading  of  ambition's  thorns  —  the  toiling  heed  of  gold  — 
'T  is  tliese  do  more  than  rolling  years  in  making  us  grow  old  : 
Then  shake  old  Christmas  by  the  hand  —  in  kindness  let  him  dwell, 
For  he  's  king  of  right  good  company » and  we  should  treat  him  well. 


MISS   ELIZA  COOK.  485 


Why  should  we  let  pale  Discontent  fling  canker  on  the  hours  — 
Unjust  regrets  lurk  round  the  soul  like  snakes  in  leafy  bowers  ; 
And  though  the  flood  of  Plenty's  tide  upon  our  lot  may  pour, 
How  oft  the  lip  will  murmur  still  the  horse-leech  cry  for  "  more." 
We  sigh  for  wealth  —  we  pant  for  place  —  and  getting  what  we 

crave, 
We  often  find  it  only  coils  fresh  chains  about  the  slave. 
Year  after  year  may  gently  help  to  turn  the  dark  locks  white, 
But  Time  ne'er  fades  a  flower  so  soon  as  cold  and  worldly  blight : 
Then  shake  Old  Christmas  by  the  hand  —in  kindness  let  him  dwell, 
For  he  's  king  of  right  good  company,  and  we  should  treat  him  well. 

Be  glad  —  be  glad  —  stir  up  the  blaze,  and  let  our  spirits  yield 
The  incense  that  is  grateful  as  the  lilies  of  the  field ; 
"  Good  will  to  all  "  —  't  is  sweet  and  ricii,  and  helps  to  keep  away 
The  wrinkled  pest  of  frowning  brows  — and  mildew  shades  of  grey. 
Be  glad  —  be  glad  —  and  though  we  have  some  cypress  in  our 

wreath, 
Forget  not  there  are  rosebuds  too,  that  ever  peep  beneath. 
And  though  long  years  may  line  the  cheek,  and  wither  up  the 

heart. 
It  is  not  Time,  but  selfish  Care,  that  does  the  saddest  part : 
Then  shake  Old  Christmas  by  the  hand— in  kindness  let  him  dwell. 
For  he 's  king  of  right  good  company,  and  we  should  treat  him  well. 

Miss  Cook  excels  greatly  in  pathos.  No  pathos  can  be  finer. 
There  is  nothing  maudlin  or  whining  in  it ;  but  it  is  always  true, 
deep  andunaff'ected.  The  following  poem  has  always  appeared 
to  me  very  beautiful  and  touching. 

THE    MOURNERS. 

King  Death  sped  forth  in  his  dreaded  power, 

To  make  the  most  of  his  silent  hour  ; 

And  the  first  he  took  was  a  white  rob'd  girl. 

With  the  orange  bloom  twin'd  in  each  glossy  curl; 

The  fond  betroth'd  hung  o'er  her  bier, 

Bathing  her  shroud  with  the  gushing  tear  ; 

RR* 


486  MISS   ELIZA    COOK. 


He  madly  raved,  he  shriek'd  his  pain, 

With  frantic  speech  and  burning  brain; 

"  There  's  no  joy,"  said  he,  "  now  my  dearest  is  gone  ; 

Take,  take  me,  Death  !  for  I  cannot  live  on  !" 

The  Sire  was  robb'd  of  his  eldest  born, 

And  he  bitterly  bled  while  the  branch  was  torn ; 

Other  scions  were  'round,  as  good  and  fair, 

But  noneseem'd  so  brigfit  as  the  deathless  heir. 

"  My  hopes  are  crush'd,"  was  the  father's  cry ; 

"  Since  my  darling  is  lost,  I,  too,  would  die  !" 

The  valued  Friend  was  snatch'd  away, 

Bound  to  another  from  childhood's  day  ; 

And  the  one  that  was  left  exclaimed  in  despair, 

"  Oh,  he  sleeps  in  the  tomb,  let  me  follow  him  there  !" 

A  Mother  was  taken,  whose  constant  love 

Had  nestled  her  child  like  a  fair  young  dove  ; 

And  the  heart  of  that  child  to  the  mother  had  grown, 

Like  the  ivy  to  oak,  or  the  moss  to  the  stone  ; 

Nor  loud  nor  wild  was  the  burst  of  woe, 

But  the  tide  of  anguish  was  strong  below  ; 

And  the  reft  one  turn'd  from  all  that  Avas  light, 

From  the  flowers  of  day,  and  the  stars  of  night, — 

Breathing  where  none  might  hear  or  see, 

"  Where  thou  art,  my  mother  !  thy  child  would  be  !" 

Death  smil'd  as  he  heard  each  earnest  word  — 

"  Nay,  nay,"  said  he,  "  be  this  work  deferr'd; 

I  '11  see  thee  again  in  a  fleeting  year. 

And  if  grief  and  devotion  live  on  sincere, 

I  promise  thee  then  thou  shall  share  in  the  rest 

Of  the  being  pluck'd  from  thy  doting  breast; 

Then  if  thou  cravest  the  cofiln  and  pall. 

As  thou  dost  this  moment,  my  spear  shall  fall  !" 

—  And  Death  fled  :  — till  Time  on  his  rapid  wing, 

Gave  the  hour  that  brought  back  the  skeleton  king. 


MISS   ELIZA  COOK.  487 


But  the  Lover  was  ardently  wooing  again, 

Kneeling  in  serfdom  and  proud  of  his  chain  ; 

He  had  found  an  idol  to  adore, 

Rarer  than  that  he  had  worshipp'd  before  ; 

His  step  was  gay,  his  laugh  was  loud. 

As  he  led  the  way  for  the  bridal  crowd  ; 

And  his  brow  own'd  not  a  moment's  shade. 

Though  he  pass'd  o'er  the  grave  where  his  lost  love  laid 

"Ha,  ha!"  cried  Death,  "'tis  passing  clear 

That  I  am  a  guest  not  wanted  here  !" 

The  Father  was  seen  in  his  children's  games 

Kissing  their  flush'd  brows,  and  blessing  their  names  ; 

And  his  eye  grew  bright  as  he  mark'd  the  charms 

Of  the  boy  at  his  knee  and  the  girl  in  his  arms ; 

His  voice  rang  out  in  the  merry  noise. 

He  was  first  in  all  their  hopes  and  joys  ; 

He  ruled  their  sports  in  the  setting  sun. 

Nor  gave  a  thought  to  the  missing  one  ! 

"  Are  ye  ready  ?"  cried  Death,  as  he  raised  his  dart, — 

"  Nay,  nay,"  shrieked  the  father,  "  in  mercy  depart !" 

The  Friend  again  was  quaffing  the  bowl, 
Warmly  pledging  his  faith  and  soul ; 
His  bosom  cherish'd  with  glowing  pride, 
A  stranger  form  that  sat  by  his  side  ; 
His  hand  the  hand  of  that  stranger  press'd, 
He  prais'd  his  song,  he  echoed  his  jest ; 
And  the  mirth  and  wit  of  that  new  found  mate, 
Made  a  blank  of  the  name  so  priz'd  of  late : 
"See,  see!"  cried  Death,  as  he  hurried  past, 
"  How  bravely  the  bonds  of  friendship  last ! " 

But  the  Orphan-Child,  —  oh,  where  was  she? 

With  clasping  hands,  and  bending  knee, 

All  alone  on  the  churchyard  sod. 

Mingling  the  names  of  "  Mother  "  and  "  God  ;  " 


488  MISS   ELIZA   COOK. 


Her  dark  and  sunken  eye  was  hid, 
Fast  weeping  beneath  the  swollen  lid  ; 
Her  sigh  was  heavy,  her  forehead  was  chill. 
Betraying  the  wound  was  unhealed  still ; 
And  her  smother'd  prayer  was  heard  to  crave 
A  speedy  home  in  the  self-same  grave. 

Hers  was  the  love  all  holy  and  strong, 

Hers  was  the  sorrow  fervent  and  long ; 

Hers  was  the  spirit  whose  light  was  shed 

As  an  incense  fire  above  the  dead. 

Death  linger'd  there,  —  and  paus'd  awhile, 

But  she  beckon'd  him  on  with  a  welcoming  smile  ; 

"  There  's  a  solace,"  cried  he,  "  for  all  others  to  find, 

But  a  mother  leaves  no  equal  behind  !  " 

—  And  the  kindest  blow  Death  ever  gave, 

Laid  the  mourning  child  in  its  parent's  grave. 


I  think  that  none  of  our  female  writers  surpass  Miss  Cook  in 
strength  and  force  of  style.  Miss  Landon's  verse  may  be  as 
showy,  —  nay  it  is  more  so;  but  it  has  none  of  the  sustained 
power  that  characterizes  Miss  Cook's  :  Mrs.  Howitt's  resembles 
it,  but  it  has  a  soft  garb  which  quite  marks  the  sex  of  the  writer, 
and  which  scarcely  ever  distinguishes  Miss  Cook's.  There  is  in 
Miss  Cook  that  fine  eloquence  which  grows  as  it  advances. 
There  is  a  gradual  deepening  in  the  following  powerful  lines,  that 
reminds  one  of  a  widening  river,  rolling  broader  and  deeper 
towards  the  sea : 


"  He  that  is  without  sin  among  you,  let  him  first  cast  a  stone," —  fSt.  John, 
Chap.  8,  verse  7th.) 


Beautiful  eloquence,  thou  speakest  low, 

But  the  world's  clashing  cannot  still  thy  tones  ; 

Thou  livest,  as  the  stream  with  gentle  flow 

Runs  through  the  battle-field  of  strife  and  groans. 


MISS  ELIZA   COOK.  489 


Thine  is  the  language  of  a  simple  creed, 

Whose  saving  might  has  no  priest-guarded  bound, 

If  soundly  learn'd,  say  would  the  martyr  bleed? 

Or  such  dense  shadows  f;ill  on  "hallowed  ground?" 

Oh,  how  we  boast  our  knowledge  of  "  the  Right," 

But  blast  the  Christian  grain  with  Conduct's  blight. 

'T  is  well  to  ask  our  Maker  to  "  forgive 

Our  trespasses  ;  "  but  't  is  as  we  may  bear 
The  trespasses  of  those  who  breathe  and  live 

Amid  the  same  Temptation,  Doubt  and  Care. 
Oh  !  ye,  who  point  so  often  to  the  herd 

Whose  dark  and  evil  works  are  all  uncloaked, 
Is  there  no  other  than  condemning  word. 

For  minds  untaught  and  spirits  sorely  yoked  ? 
Are  ye  quite  sure  no  hidden  leper  taint 
Blurs  your  own  skin  if  we  look  through  the  paint. 

Ye  throw  from  ambush  !  —  let  Truth's  noontide  light 

Flash  on  the  strength  that  nerves  such  eager  aims. 
Bring  pigmy  greatness  from  its  giant  height, 

Where  would  be  then  the  splendour  of  your  names  ? 
Ye  harsh  denouncers,  'tis  an  easy  thing 

To  wrap  yourselves  in  Cunning's  specious  robes. 
And  sharpen  all  the  polished  blades  ye  fling. 

As  though  ye  held  diploma  for  the  probes : 
But  if  the  charlatan  and  knave  were  dropp'd. 
Some  spreading  trees  would  be  most  closely  lopp'd. 

Ye,  that  so  fiercely  show  your  warring  teeth 

At  every  other  being  on  your  way, 
Is  your  own  sword  so  stainless  in  its  sheath, 

That  ye  can  justify  the  braggart  fray  ? 
The  tricks  of  policy  —  the  hold  of  place  — 

The  dulcet  jargon  of  a  courtly  rote  — 
The  sleek  and  smiling  mask  upon  the  face  — 

The  eye  that  sparkled  but  to  hide  its  mote  : 
Tell  me,  ye  worms,  could  ye  well  bear  the  rub, 
That  tore  these  silken  windings  from  the  grub  ? 

62 


490  .MISS   ELIZA    COOK. 


Ye  lips,  that  gloat  upon  a  brother's  sin, 

With  moral  moutliiiig  in  llie  wliisper'd  speech, 
Methinks  I  've  seen  the  poi&on  fang-  within, 

Betray  the  viper  rather  llian  the  leech, 
I  've  marked  the  frailties  of  some  gifted  one, 

Blazon'd  with  prudent  doubt  and  virtuous  sigh, 
But  through  the  whining  cant  of  saintly  tone. 

Heard  Joy  give  Pity  tiie  exulting  lie, 
As  if  it  were  a  pleasant  thing  to  find. 
The  racer  stumbling  and  the  gaze-hound  blind. 

Too  proud  —  too  ignorant,  —  too  mighty  Man  — 

Why  dost  thou  so  forget  the  lesson  taught  ? 
Why  not  let  Mercy  cheer  our  lunnan  span  ? 

Ye  say  ye  serve  Christ  —  heed  him  as  ye  ought: 
He  did  not  goad  the  weeping  ciiild  of  clay. 

He  heaped  no  coals  upon  the  erring  head, 
Fixed  no  despair  upon  the  sinner's  way. 

And  dropp'd  no  gall  upon  the  sinner's  bread  : 
He  heard  Man's  cry  for  Vengeance,  but  he  fiung 
Man's  Conscience  at  the  yell,  and  hushed  the  tongue. 

Great  teaching  from  a  greater  teacher  —  fit 

To  breathe  alike  to  Infancy  and  Age: 
No  garbled  mystery  o'ershadows  it, 

And  noblest  hearts  Jiave  deepest  read  the  page. 
Carve  it  upon  the  mart  and  temple  arch, 

Let  our  fierce  judges  read  it  as  they  go. 
Make  it  the  key-note  of  Life's  pompous  march. 

And  trampling  steps  will  be  more  soft  and  slow. 
For  God's  own  voice  says  from  the  Eternal  throne. 

"  Let  him  that  is  without  sin  cast  the  stone." 


One  more  passage,  and  I  conclude  my  extracts  from  Miss 
Cook's  writings.  The  lines  are  noble  ones,  and  full  of  the  true 
poet's  fire. 


MISS   ELIZA    COOK.  491 


Love,  beautiful  and  boundless  Love  —  oh!  who  shall  hymn  thy 

praise  ? 
Who  shall  exalt  thy  hallow'd  name  with  fitting  anthem  lays  ? 
When  shall  thy  workings  all  be  seen  —  thy  power  all  revealed? 
Oh  !  who  shall  count  thy  fairy  steps  upon  Earth's  rugged  field  ? 

There  are  few  things  of  gloom  that  meet  our  Sorrow  or  our  Hate, 
Where  Love  and  Beauty  have  not  once  been  portion  of  their  state  ; 
Few  things  are  seen  in  charmless  guise  that  shutteth  out  all  trace 
Of  God's  infinitude  of  Joy,  of  Purity,  and  Grace. 

There  's  not  a  palsied  ruin  bows  its  patriarchal  head 

That  has  not  rung  with  Triumph  shouts  while  Revel  banquets 

spread  : 
There  's  not  a  desolated  hearth  but  where  the  cheerful  pile 
Of  blazing  logs  has  sparkled  and  the  cricket  sung  the  while. 

The  broken  mandolin  that  lies  in  silent,  slow  decay, 
Has  quicken'd  many  a  gende  pulse  that  heard  its  measures  play  ; 
The  stagnant  pool  that  taints  and  kills  the  mallow  and  the  rush, 
Has  filtered  through  the  silver  clouds  and  cool'd  the  rainbow's 
flush. 

There  's  not  a  dark,  dull  coflTin-board  but  what  has  stood  to  bear 
A  swarm  of  summer  warblers  in  the  mellow  greenwood  air; 
There  's  not  a  thread  of  cere-cloth  but  has  held  its  blossom  bells, 
And  swung  the  morning  pearls  about  within  the  fragrant  wells. 

Love  lurketh  round  us  everywhere  —  it  fills  the  great  design. 
It  gives  the  soul  its  chosen  mate  —  it  loads  the  autumn  vine  ; 
It  dyes  the  orchard  branches  red  —  it  folds  the  worm  in  silk. 
It  rears  the  daisy  where  we  tread,  and  bringeth  corn  and  milk. 

Love  stirreth  in  our  beings  all  unbidden  and  unknown. 
With  aspirations  leaping  up  like  fountains  from  the  stone  ; 
It  prompts  the  great  and  noble  deeds  that  nations  hail  with  pride, 
It  moveth  when  we  grieve  to  miss  an  old  dog  from  our  side. 


492  MISS  ELIZA  COOK. 


It  bids  us  plant  the  sapling  to  be  green  when  we  are  grey, 
It  pointeth  to  the  Future,  and  yet  blesses  while  we  stay  ; 
It  opens  the  Almighty  page  where  —  though  'tis  held  afar, 
We  read  enough  to  lure  us  on  still  higher  than  we  are. 

The  child  at  play  upon  the  sward  who  runs  to  snatch  a  flower, 
With  earnest  passion  in  his  glee  that  glorifies  the  hour  — 
The  doting  student  —  pale  and  meek  —  who  looks  into  the  night 
Dreaming  of  all  tliat  helps  the  soul  to  gauge  Eternal  might;  — 

The  rude,  bold  savage,  pouring  forth  his  homage  to  the  sun. 
Asking  for  other  "  hunting  fields,"  when  life's  long  chase  is  run  — 
The  poet  boy  who  sitteth  down  upon  the  upland  grass. 
Whose  eagle  thoughts  are  nestled  by  the  Zephyr  wings  that  pass  ; — 

The  weak  old  man  that  creepeth  out  once  more  before  he  dies, 
With  longing  wish  to  see  and  feel  the  sunlight  in  his  eyes  — 
Oh  !  these  are  the  unerring  types  that  Nature  setteth  up, 
To  tell  that  an  Elixir  drop  yet  sanctifies  our  cup. 

Love,  beautiful  and  boundless  Love,  thou  dwellest  here  below. 
Teaching  the  human  lip  to  smile  —  the  violet  to  blow  ; 
Thine  is  the  breath  ethereal  that  yet  exhales  and  burns 
In  sinful  breasts  as  incense  steals  from  dim  unsightly  urns. 

Thou  art  the  holy  record  seal  that  Time  can  ne'er  annul, 
The  dove  amid  the  vulture  tribe  —  the  lamp  within  the  skull  — 
Thou  art  the  one  bright  Spirit  Thing  that  is  not  bought  and  sold, 
The  cherub  elve  that  laugheth  in  the  giant  face  of  Gold. 

Love  —  exquisite,  undying  Love  —  runs  through  Creation's  span. 
Gushing  from  countless  springs  to  fill  the  ocean  heart  of  Man  ; 
And  there  it  broadly  rollelh  on  in  deep  unfalhomed  flood, 
Swelling  with  the  Immortal  Hope  that  craveth  more  of  "  Good." 

It  is  the  rich  magnetic  spark  yet  shining  in  the  dust. 
The  fair  salvation  ray  of  Faith  that  wins  our  joyful  trust. 
The  watchword  of  the  Infinite,  left  liere  to  lead  above. 
That's  ever  seen  and  ever  heard,  and  tells  us  "  God  is  Love." 


THE    OLD    ARM    CHAIR 


I  love  it,  I  love  it ;  and  who  shall  dare 

To  chide  me  for  loving  that  old  arm-chair  ? 

I  've  treasured  it  long  as  a  sainted  prize, 

I  've  bedewed  it  with  tears,  and  embalmed  it  with  sighs ; 

'T  is  bound  by  a  thousand  bands  to  my  heart ; 

Not  a  tie  will  break,  not  a  link  will  start. 

Would  ye  learn  the  spell  ?  a  mother  sat  there, 

And  a  sacred  thing  is  that  old  arm-chair. 

In  childhood's  hour  I  lingered  near 

The  hallowed  seat  with  listening  ear  ; 

And  gentle  words  that  mother  would  give, 

To  fit  me  to  die  and  teach  me  to  live. 

She  told  me  shame  would  never  betide. 

With  truth  for  my  creed  and  God  for  my  guide  ; 

She  taught  me  to  lisp  my  earliest  prayer. 

As  I  knelt  beside  that  old  arm-chair. 

I  sat  and  watch'd  her  many  a  day. 

When  her  eye  grew  dim,  and  her  locks  were  gray ; 

And  I  almost  worshipp'd  her  when  she  smiled 

And  turn'd  from  her  Bible  to  bless  her  child. 

Years  roll'd  on,  but  the  last  one  sped  — 

My  idol  was  shatter'd,  my  earth-star  fled; 

I  learnt  how  much  the  heart  can  bear. 

When  I  saw  her  die  in  that  old  arm-chair. 

'T  is  past !  't  is  past !  but  I  gaze  on  it  now 
With  quivering  breath  and  throbbing  brow  : 
'T  was  there  she  nursed  me,  't  was  there  she  died  ; 
And  memory  flows  with  lava  tide. 
Say  it  is  folly,  and  deem  me  weak. 
While  the  scalding  drops  start  down  my  cheek ; 
But  I  love  it,  I  love  it,  and  cannot  tear 
My  soul  from  a  mother's  old  arm-chair. 
ss 


494  MISS  ELIZA  COOK. 


WASHINGTON. 

Land  of  the  west !  though  passing  brief  the  record  of  thine  age, 
Thou  hast  a  name  that  darkens  all  on  history's  wide  page  ! 
Let  all  the  blasts  of  fame  ring  out  —  thine  shall  be  loudest  far: 
Let  others  boast  their  satellites — thou  hast  the  planet  star. 
Thou  hast  a  name  whose  characters  of  light  shall  ne'er  depart; 
'T  is  stamped  upon  the  dullest  brain,  and  warms  the  coldest  heart; 
A  war-cry  fit  for  any  land  where  freedom  's  to  be  won. 
Land  of  the  west !  it  stands  alone  —  it  is  thy  Washington  ! 

Rome  had  its  Caesar,  great  and  brave ;    but  stain   was  on  his 

wreath  ; 
He  lived  the  heartless  conquerer,  and  died  the  tyrant's  death. 
France  had  its  Eagle  ;  but  his  wings,  though  lofty  they  might  soar, 
Were  spread  in  false  ambition's  flight,  and  dipped  in  murder's 

gore. 
Those  hero-gods,  whose  mighty  sway  would  fain  have  chained 

the  waves  — 
Who  fleshed  their  blades  with  tiger  zeal,  to  make  a  world  of 

slaves  — 
Who,    though    their    kindred    barred    the    path,    still    fiercely 

waded  on  — 
Oh,  where  shall  be  their  "glory"  by  the  side  of  Washington? 

He  fought,  but  not  with  love  of  strife  ;  he  struck  but  to  defend  ; 
And  ere  he  turned  a  people's  foe,  he  sought  to  be  a  friend. 
He  strove  to  keep  his  country's  right  by  reason's  gentle  word. 
And  sighed  when  fell  injustice  threw  the  challenge — sword  to 

sword. 
He  stood  the  firm,  the  calm,  the  wise,  the  patriot  and  the  sage  ; 
He  showed  no  deep,  avenging  hate  —  no  burst  of  despot  rage. 
He  stood  for  liberty  and  truth,  and  dauntlessly  led  on, 
Till  shouts  of  victory  gave  forth  the  name  of  Washington. 

No  car  of  triumph  bore  him  through  a  city  filled  with  grief; 
No  groaning  captives  at  the  wheels  proclaimed  him  victor  chief: 


MISS  ELIZA  COOK.  495 


He  broke  the  gyves  of  slavery  with  strong  and  high  disdain, 
And  cast  no  sceptre  from  the  links  when  he  had  crushed  the  chain. 
He  saved  his  land,  but  did  not  lay  his  soldier  trappings  down 
To  change  them  for  the  regal  vest,  and  don  a  kingly  crown. 
Fame  was  loo  earnest  in  her  joy — too  proud  of  such  a  son  — 
To  let  a  robe  and  title  mask  a  noble  Washington. 

England,  my  heart  is  truly  thipe  —  my  loved,  my  native  earth  !— 
The  land  that  holds  a  mother's  grave,  and  gave  that  mother  birth  ! 
Oh,  keenly  sad  would  be  the  fate  that  thrust  me  from  thy  shore, 
And  faltering  my  breath,  that  sighed,  "  Farewell  for  evermore  !" 
But  did  I  meet  such  adverse  lot,  I  would  not  seek  to  dwell 
Where  olden  Heroes  wrought  the  deeds  for  Homer's  song  to  tell. 
Away,  thou  gallant  ship  !  I  'd  cry,  and  bear  me  swiftly  on  : 
But  bear  me  from  my  own  fair  land  to  that  of  Washington! 


THE    LOVED    ONE    WAS    NOT    THERE. 

We  gathered  round  the  festive  board. 

The  crackling  faggot  blazed. 
But  few  would  taste  the  wine  that  poured, 

Or  join  the  song  we  raised. 
For  there  was  now  a  glass  unfilled  — 

A  favoured  place  to  spare  ; 
All  eyes  were  dull,  all  hearts  were  chilled  — 

The  loved  one  was  not  there. 

No  happy  laugh  was  heard  to  ring. 

No  form  would  lead  the  dance  ; 
A  smothered  sorrow  seemed  to  fling 

A  gloom  in  every  glance. 
The  grave  had  closed  upon  a  brow, 

The  honest,  bright,  and  fair; 
We  missed  our  mate,  we  mourned  the  blow 

The  loved  one  was  not  there. 


496  FRANCES   ANNE   BUTLER. 


FRANCES  ANNE  BUTLER. 

It  is  scarcely  necessary  to  say  that  Mrs.  Butler  is  the  late 
Miss  Fanny  Kemble.  Her  literary  abilities  have  been  variously 
manifested.  Prose,  Verse,  and  Drama,  have  alike  engaged  her  ; 
and  in  all  she  has  attracted  a  large  share  of  public  attention  and 
applause  :  with  her  poetical  genius,  however,  we  have  alone  to 
do  on  the  present  occasion. 

I  venture  to  say  that  Mrs.  Butler's  poetry  may  safely  challenge 
comparison  with  the  verse  of  most  female  writers  in  our  literature. 
I  do  not  say  that  it  has  the  softness  of  Mrs.  Hemans's,  the  delight- 
ful simplicity  of  jNIary  Howitt's,  or  tlie  sweet  gracefulness  of  Miss 
Mitford's,  —  "one  star  differetk  from  another  star  in  glory,"  — 
but  it  has  character  and  individualism :  it  displays  immense  intel- 
lectual power;  sympathies  of  a  pure,  high,  unaffected  order;  and 
what,  in  these  days  (as  in  all),  is  one  of  the  greatest  possible  ex- 
cellencies, a  thorough  hatred  and  avoidance  of  all  hypocrisy,  pre- 
tence, and  cant.  I  never  met  with  a  more  natural  writer;  and, 
surely,  where  there  is  honesty  of  soul,  a  few  sins  against  taste  may 
be  pardoned.  Mrs.  Butler's  faults  proceed  not  from  a  deficiency, 
but  from  a  redundancy,  of  power  ;  M'hicli  is  a  very  excusable,  in- 
asmuch as  it  is  a  very  uncommon,  failing.  I  believe  that  in  the 
course  of  a  few  years,  when  time  shall  have  sobered  down  the 
perhaps  too-vividly  painted  lines  of  her  mental  character,  and  shall 
have  corrected  her  hasty  estimates  of  the  world  and  of  humanity, 
Mrs.  Butler  will  rank  with  the  foremost  poets  of  our  land. 

The  following  verses  will  fairly  represent  Mrs.  Butler's  ener- 
getic, thoughtful,  picturesque  style.  Byron  has  no  grander  im- 
personations. 

I. 

AUTUMN. 

I  hear  a  voice  low  in  the  sunset  woods  : 
Listen  ;  it  says  "  Decay,  decay,  decay  :" 


FRANCES   ANNE   BUTLER.  497 


I  hear  it  in  the  murmuring  of  the  floods, 
And  the  wind  sighs  it  as  it  flies  away. 
Autumn  is  come  ;  seest  thou  not  in  the  skies 
The  stormy  light  of  his  fierce  hirid  eyes  ? 
Autumn  is  come ;  his  brazen  feet  have  trod, 
Withering  and  scorching,  o'er  the  mossy  sod. 
The  fainting  year  sees  her  fresh  flowery  wreath 
Shrivel  in  his  hot  grasp ;  his  burning  breath 
Dries  the  sweet  water-springs  that  in  the  shade 
Wandering  along,  delicious  music  made. 
A  flood  of  glory  hangs  upon  the  world. 
Summer's  bright  wings  shining  ere  they  are  furl'd. 

II. 

WINTER. 

I  saw  him  on  his  throne,  far  in  the  North, 

Him  ye  call  Winter,  picturing  him  ever 

An  aged  man,  whose  frame,  with  palsied  shiver 

Bends  o'er  the  fiery  element,  his  foe. 

But  him  I  saw  was  a  young  god  whose  brow 

Was  crown'd  with  jagged  icicles,  and  forth 

From  his  keen  spirit-like  eyes  there  shone  a  light 

Broad,  glaring,  and  intensely  cold  and  bright. 

His  breath,  like  sharp-edged  arrows,  pierced  the  air ; 

The  naked  earth  crouched  shuddering  at  his  feet ; 

His  finger  on  all  murmuring  waters  sweet 

Lay  icily,  —  motion  nor  sound  was  there  ; 

Nature  seem'd  frozen  —  dead  ;  and  still  and  slow 

A  winding  sheet  fell  o'er  her  features  fair, 

Flaky  and  white  from  his  wide  wings  of  snow. 


Mrs.  Butler's  plays  scarcely  come  within  the  scope  of  the  pre- 
sent work,  for  there  is  not  much  that  is  poetical  in  them.  They 
exhibit  a  quick,  discerning  eye,  a  bold  fancy,  and  a  firm,  deter- 
mined, wide-grasping  intellect:  but  they  want  the  compression 
and  cohesion  which  only  practice  can  give. 
63  ss* 


498  FRANCES  ANNE  BUTLER. 


That  our  fair  Authoress  lias  however  an  eminently  dramatic 
mind  cannot  I  think  be  doubted  for  a  moment.  Her  poems  are 
essentially  dramatical:  terse,  vigorous,  graphic,  and  impersona- 
tive.     The  following  Ballad  is  a  perfect  drama. 


The  Lord's  son  stood  at  the  clear  spring  head. 

The  May  on  the  other  side  ; 
"  And  stretch  me  your  lily  hand,"  he  said, 

"  For  I  must  mount  and  ride. 

"  And  waft  me  a  kiss  across  the  brook, 

And  a  curl  of  your  yellow  hair; 
Come  summer  or  winter,  I  never  shall  look 

Again  on  your  eyes  so  fair. 

"  Bring  me  my  coal-black  steed,  my  squire, 

Bring  Fleet-foot  forth,"  he  cried  ; 
"For  three-score  miles  he  must  not  tire 

To  bear  me  to  my  bride. 

•'  His  foot  must  be  swift  though  my  heart  be  slow, 

He  carries  me  towards  my  sorrow  ; 
To  the  Earl's  proud  daugliter  I  made  my  vow. 

And  I  must  wed  her  to-morrow." 

The  Lord's  son  stood  at  the  altar-stone. 

The  Earl's  proud  daughter  near  : 
"  And  what  is  that  ring  you  have  gotten  on, 

That  you  kiss  so  oft  and  so  dear  ? 

*'  Is  it  a  ring  of  the  yellow  gold. 

Or  something  more  precious  and  bright  ? 

Give  me  that  ring  in  my  hand  to  hold. 
Or  I  plight  ye  no  troth  to-night !" 

"  It  is  not  a  ring  of  the  yellow  gold. 

But  something  more  precious  and  bright ; 


But  never  shall  hand,  save  my  hand,  hold 
This  ring  by  day  or  night." 

"And  now^  I  am  your  wedded  wife, 

Give  me  the  ring  I  pray." — 
"  You  may  take  my  lands,  you  may  take  my  life, 

But  never  this  ring  away." 

They  sat  at  the  board,  and  the  lady  bride 

Red  wine  in  a  goblet  pour'd  ; 
"  And  pledge  me  a  health,  sweet  sir,"  she  cried, 

"  My  husband  and  my  lord." 

The  cup  to  his  lips  he  had  scarcely  press'd, 
When  he  gasping  drew  his  breath  ; 

His  head  sank  down  on  his  heaving  breast, 
And  he  said  "  It  is  death  !  it  is  death  ! 

"  Oh,  bury  me  under  the  gay  green  shaw. 
By  the  brook,  'neath  the  heathery  sod, 

Where  last  her  blessed  eyes  I  saw, 
Where  her  blessed  feet  last  trod  !" 


Oh !  turn  those  eyes  away  from  me  ! 

Though  sweet,  yet  fearful  are  their  rays  ; 
And  though  they  beam  so  tenderly, 

I  feel  I  tremble  'neath  their  gaze. 
Oh,   urn  those  eyes  away  !  for  though 

To  meet  their  glance  I  may  not  dare, 
I  know  their  light  is  on  my  brow 
By  the  warm  blood  that  mantles  there. 


50  J  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  BROWNING. 


ELIZABETH  BARRETT  BROWNING. 

A  VERY  considerable  number  of  our  Female  Poets  have  distin- 
guished themselves  by  their  learning.  From  the  time  of  Lady 
Berners  down  to  the  present  day,  scholastic  acquirements  have 
attracted  many  of  our  female  writers.  Lady  Berners  herself, 
Lady  Jane  Grey,  Queen  Elizabeth,  Lady  Carew,  the  Countess 
of  Pembroke,  the  Duchess  of  Newcastle,  Lady  Mary  Wortley 
Montagu,  Miss  Carter,  and  other  lady  authors,  may  be  instanced. 

Our  own  day  has  its  examples  of  the  same  fact.  Mrs.  Hemans, 
Mrs.  Howitt,  and  Miss  Mitford  all  display  great  classical  know- 
ledge and  lingual  proficiency.  And  the  distinguished  lady  whose 
name  heads  this  Chapter,  Mrs.  Robert  Browning,  formerly  Miss 
EUzabeth  Barrett  Barrett,  is  a  fresh  illustration  of  the  assertion. 
I  think  it  may  be  said  that  she  is  chief  amongst  the  learned  poet- 
esses of  our  land  :  at  least,  I  know  of  no  British  female  writer 
wlio  exhibits  so  intimate  an  acquaintance  with  the  spirit  of  both 
antique  and  modern  philosophy,  or  so  refined  a  perception  of 
intellectual  purity  and  beauty.  Her  poetry  is  the  poetry  of  pure 
reason. 

It  may  be  a  question,  however,  whether  an  intense  devotion  to 
scholastic  learning  is  not  rather  injurious  than  beneficial  to  the 
female  mind.  It  cannot  be  pretended,  of  course,  that  school- 
craft,  and  the  philosophy  of  art,  science,  and  reason,  ought  to  be 
altogether  overlooked  and  unstudied  by  woman  :  —  the  proposi- 
tion would  be  monstrous.  But  it  may  perhaps  be  fairly  argued 
that,  as  woman's  faculties  are  rather  perceptive  than  investigative, 
and  as  her  knowledge  of  truth  is  rather  intuitive  than  acquired, 
there  is  a  possibility  of  her  understanding  being  injured  by  over- 
cultivation.  Just  as  some  flowers  lose  their  native  beauty  when 
forced  by  horticultural  art,  may  the  female  mind  be  spoiled  by 
excess  of  intellectual  culture. 


ELIZABETH  BARRETT  BROWNING.  501 


Far  as  we  should  carry  female  education,  we  should,  I  lliink, 
take  especial  care  not  to  found  it  on  the  same  studies  as  appear 
necessary  to  man's.  The  acquirements  of  the  sexes  must  be 
kept  unlike,  or  man  will  find  in  woman,  not  a  help  meet,  but  a 
rival.  Harmony  results  not  from  similarity,  but  from  difference ; 
and  the  law  applies  as  much  to  the  mental  as  to  the  physical 
world.  Two  minds  exactly  alike  would  soon  grow  tired  of  each 
other ;  for  each  would  see  in  the  other  only  the  continual  reflec- 
tion of  its  own  image,  and  would  be  like  a  person  condemned  to 
behold  no  human  face  but  that  which  he  saw  in  his  mirror. 

Further,  the  spheres  of  the  sexes  are  different  and  require  dif- 
ferent faculties,  and  different  education.  The  man — "for  con- 
templation formed"  —  should  learn  by  study,  and  reflection,  and 
comparison,  and  investigation  ;  the  woman  —  "  for  softness  formed 
and  sweet  attractive  grace  "  —  should  acquire  knowledge  mainly 
through  her  rapid  instincts,  her  wide-spreading  sympathies,  and 
her  quick  instantaneous  perceptions. 

The  male  and  female  minds  arrive  at  truth  by  different  roads. 
Man  reaches  it  by  proof;  woman,  by  faith.  Man  knows  it; 
woman  feels  it.  Man  demonstrates  it ;  woman  believes  it.  Mary 
recognised  the  risen  Christ  when  He  spake  to  her  ;  Thomas  would 
not  believe  until  he  had  thrust  his  finger  into  the  Saviour's  side. 

Science,  then,  and  learning,  the  logical  signs  of  knowledge,  are 
means  comparatively  of  but  little  value  to  the  female  mind  in  its 
acquisition  of  truth,  and  in  excess  tend  rather  to  cloud  and  con- 
fuse than  to  enlighten  and  inform  it. 

In  proof  of  these  remarks  I  think  I  can  fairly  say  that  learned 
poetesses,  however  great  their  genius,  have  rarely  been  so  effec- 
tive and  popular  as  less  cultivated  writers,  possessed  of  even 
smaller  natural  powess.  How  charmingly,  for  instance,  Kathe- 
rine  Philips  shines  out  from  the  thick  cluster  of  learned  ladies 
who  surround  her.  Her  Ode  .^gainst  Pleasure  is  worth  all  that 
her  more  showy  sisters  produced  altogether.  Hers  is  moral 
knowledge  ;  theirs  intellectual :  hers  feeling  ;  theirs  logic.  Mrs. 
Opie,  again,  contrasts  sweetly  with  Miss  Carter,  Mrs.  More,  and 
other  erudite  ladies  of  that  era.  Her  poem.  The  Orphan  Boy, 
will  outweigh  all  the  learned  odes  produced  by  the  female  minds 
of  her  generation. 


502  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  BROWNING. 


To  come  however  (at  last)  to  the  lady  whose  poetical  works 
this  Chapter  proposes  to  consider,  I  scruple  not  to  say  that  she 
is  certainly  most  effective  in  her  least  laboured  compositions. 
Her  genius,  it  is  impossible  not  to  see,  is  of  the  highest  order  — 
strong,  deep-seeing,  enthusiastic  and  loving ;  but  although  all  her 
compositions  prove  this,  I  find  the  greatest  evidences  of  her  pow- 
ers in  her  most  unpretending  works.  Where  there  is  effort,  there 
is  often  obscurity  ;  but  where  she  gives  her  soul  free  unconscious 
vent,  she  writes  with  a  truth  and  force  of  touch  which  none  of 
the  poetic  sisterhood  surpass. 

In  justification  of  the  opinion  which  I  have  here  expressed,  I 
would  particularly  instance  the  poem  called  Ji  Drama  of  Exile. 
The  intellect  displayed  in  this  noble  production  is  stupendous. 
The  conception  is  massive  :  the  treatment  of  the  prominent  idea 
truly  consistent  and  powerful :  the  pathos  such  as  only  a  woman 
could  have  written :  and  the  moral  tone  of  the  work  most  lofty 
and  pure.  But,  in  spite  of  all  these  excellencies,  the  poem  often 
fatigues  us.  It  keeps  the  mind  too  much  on  the  stretch ;  requires 
an  unceasing  exercise  of  our  deepest  thoughts  ;  and  while  we 
never  fail  at  last  to  see  the  extreme  beauty  of  the  writer's  ideas, 
we  grow  tired  in  studying  them.  The  following  Chorus  of  Eden 
Spirits,  highly  poetical  as  it  is,  may  be  cited  as  an  illustration  of 
my  argument.  It  will  be  seen  how  far  the  meaning  often  lies 
beneath  the  surface  :  — 

Hearken,  oh  hearken  !  let  your  souls,  behind  you. 

Lean,  gently  moved ! 
Our  voices  feel  along  the  Dread  to  find  you, 

O  lost,  beloved  ! 
Through  the  thick-shielded  and  strong-marshall'd  angels. 

They  press  and  pierce: 
Our  requiems  follow  fast  on  our  evangels, — 

Voice  throbs  in  verse  ! 
We  are  but  orphan'd  Spirits  left  in  Eden, 

A  time  ago  — 
God  gave  us  golden  cups  ;  and  we  were  bidden 

To  feed  you  so  ! 
But  now  our  right  hand  hath  no  cup  remaining. 

No  work  to  do  ; 


ELIZABETH  BARRETT  BROWNING.  503 

The  mystic  hydromel  is  spilt,  and  staining 

The  whole  earth  through  ; 
And  all  those  stains  lie  clearly  round  for  showing 

(Not  interfused !) 
That  brighter  colours  were  the  world's  foregoing, 

Than  shall  be  used. 
Hearken,  oh  hearken  !  ye  shall  hearken  surely, 

For  years  and  years, 
The  noise  beside  you,  dripping  coldly,  purely, 

Of  spirit's  tears  ! 
The  yearning  to  a  beautiful,  denied  you, 

Shall  strain  your  powers  :  — 
Ideal  sweetnesses  shall  over-glide  you. 

Resumed  from  ours ! 
In  all  your  music,  our  pathetic  minor 

Your  ears  shall  cross  ; 
And  all  fair  sights  shall  mind  you  of  diviner, 

With  sense  of  loss  ! 
We  shall  be  near,  in  all  your  poet-languors 

And  wild  extremes ; 
What  time  ye  vex  the  desert  with  vain  angers, 

Or  light  with  dreams  ! 
And  when  upon  you,  weary  after  roaming, 

.  Death's  seal  is  put, 
By  the  foregone  ye  shall  discern  the  coming. 

Through  eyelids  shut. 

But  injustice  to  Mrs.  Browning  we  must  confess  that  her  lofty 
ideality  is  far  oftener  an  excellence  than  a  blemish.  It  is  only 
from  such  a  mind  as, hers  that  we  can  get  a  conception  like  that 
contained  in  Gabriel's  reply  to  the  taunt  of  Lucifer  regarding  "  the 
vacant  thrones  in  heaven." 

"  Angel,  there  are  no  vacant  thrones  in  Heaven 

To  suit  thy  bitter  words.     Glory  and  life 

Fulfil  their  own  depletions  :  and  if  God 

SigWd  you  far  from  Him,  His  next  breath  drew  in 


504  ELIZABETH   BARRETT  BROWNING. 

Ji  compensative  splendour  up  the  skies, 
Flushing  the  starry  arteries.'''' 

To  the  same  refining  faculty  we  owe  such  passages  as  this 
which  follows :  — 

The  essence  of  all  beauty  I  call  love. 

The  attribute,  the  evidence,  and  end, 

The  consummation  to  the  inward  sense, 

Of  beauty  apprehended  from  without, 

I  still  call  love.     As  form,  when  colourless, 

Is  nothing  to  the  eye  :   that  pine-tree  there, 

Without  its  black  and  green,  being  all  a  blank ; 

So,  without  love,  is  beauty  undiscern'd, 

In  man  or  angel. 

Mrs.  Browning  proves  the  genuineness  of  her  poetic  fire  in 
nothing  more  clearly  than  in  her  high  estimate  of  poetry,  and  in 
her  just  appreciation  of  other  poets.  Poetry  is  quite  other  than 
a  plaything  to  her :  it  is  the  earnest  serious  business  of  her  life. 
She  has  Milton's  high  sense  of  the  nobility  of  song ;  and,  by  the 
way,  much  of  Milton's  lofty  imaginative  power  and  daring.  Her 
estimate  of  the  chief  poets  of  the  world  is  singularly  just  and 
discriminating:  in  her  Vision  of  Poets  some  of  the  portraits  are 
painted  as  with  a  lightning-flash.     One  of  the  stanzas  speaks  of — 

"  Shelley,  in  his  white  ideal, 


All  statue  blind." 

I  think  that  portrait  perfect.     In  another  she  points  — 

"  To  Shakspere  !  on  Avhose  forehead  climb 
The  crowns  of  the  world!     O  eyes  sublime! 
With  tears  and  laughters  for  all  time  !  " 

Schlegel  and  Hazlitt  together  have  not  said  more  than  that. 
One  of  the  chief  characteristics  of  Mrs.  Browning's  poetry  is 
the  unvarying  elevation  of  its  thought  and  sentiment.     There  is 


ELIZABETH   BARRETT  BROWNING. 


505 


never  a  grovelling  or  earthy  idea  in  it :  it  all  tends  upward  :  and 
sometimes,  in  its  pure  unwavering  morality,  approaches  the 
sacred  words  of  inspiration.  The  following  is  very  loftily  con- 
ceived :  — 


THE    MEASURE. 

"  He  comprehencleth  the  dust  of  the  earth  in  a  measure.'' — Isaiah,  xl. 
"  Thou  givest  them  tears  to  drink  in  a  measure." — Psalm,  Ixxx. 

God,  the  Creator,  with  a  pulseless  hand 
Of  unoriginated  power,  hath  weigh'd 
The  dust  of  earth  and  tears  of  man,  in  one 

Measure,  and  by  one  weight ;  — 

So  saith  His  Holy  Book. 

Shall  we,  then,  who  have  issued  from  ^he  dust 
And  there  return ;  shall  ive,  who  toil  for  dust. 
And  wrap  our  winnings  in  this  dusty  life, 

Say  "  No  more  tears,  Lord  God ! 

The  measure  runneth  o'er?" 

O  holder  of  the  balance,  laughest  Thou  ? 
Nay,  Lord  !  be  gentler  to  our  foolishness. 
For  His  sake  who  assumed  our  dust,  and  turns 

On  Thee  pathetic  eyes, 

Still  moisten'd  with  our  tears! 

And  teach  us,  O  our  Father,  while  we  weep, 
To  look  all  patiently  on  earth,  and  learn  — 
Waiting  in  that  meek  gesture,  till  at  last 

These  tearful  eyes  be  fiU'd 

With  the  dry  dust  of  death  ! 


Mrs.  Browning  is  never  more  successful  than  when  reflecting 
on  some  calm  sweet  promise  of  Scripture.  Her  womanly  faith 
and  trust  then  rise   superior  to  all  earthly  thoughts,  and  inspire 

64  TT 


her  with  most  pure  and  holy  utterances.  I  know  scarcely  any 
poem  that  has  a  more  soothing  and  sustaining  influence  than  that 
which  she  calls  — 


THE    SLEEP. 

He  giveth  His  beloved,  sleep. — Psalm,  cxxvii.  2. 

Of  all  the  thoughts  of  God  that  are 
Borne  inward  unto  souls  afar 
Along  the  Psalmist's  music  deep  — 
Now  tell  me  if  that  any  is 
For  gift  or  grace,  surpassing  this  — 
"  He  giveth  His  beloved,  sleep  "  ? 

What  would  we  give  to  our  belov'd  ? 
The  hero's  heart,  to  be  unmov'd  — 
The  poet's  star-tuned  harp  to  sweep  — 
The  senate's  shout  to  patriot  vows  — 
The  monarch's  crown  to  light  the  brows? 
"  He  giveth  His  beloved,  sleep." 

What  do  we  give  to  our  belov'd  ? 

A  little  faith,  all  undisprov'd  — 

A  little  dust,  to  over  weep  — 

And  bitter  memories  to  make 

The  whole  earth  blasted  for  our  sake  ? 

"  He  giveth  His  beloved,  sleep." 

"Sleep  soft,  belov'd  !"  we  sometimes  say, 

But  have  no  tune  to  charm  away 

Sad  dust  that  through  the  eyelids  creep  : 

But  never  doleful  dream  again 

Shall  break  the  happy  slumber  when 

"  He  giveth  His  beloved,  sleep." 

O  Earth,  so  full  of  dreary  noises ! 
O  men,  with  wailing  in  your  voices ! 


ELIZABETH   BARRETT  BROWNING.  ^07 


0  delved  gold !  the  waller's  heap  ! 
O  strife,  O  curse,  that  o'er  it  fall ! 
God  makes  a  silence  through  you  all, 
"And  giveth  His  beloved,  sleep  ! " 

His  dews  drop  mutely  on  the  hill : 
His  cloud  above  it  resteth  still, 
Though  on  its  slope  men  toil  and  reap ! 
More  softly  than  the  dew  is  shed. 
Or  cloud  is  floated  overhead, 
"  He  giveth  His  beloved,  sleep  ! " 

Yea !  men  may  wonder  when  they  scan 

A  living,  thinking,  feeling  man, 

In  such  a  rest  his  heart  to  keep: 

But  angels  say  —  and  through  the  word 

I  ween  their  blessed  smile  is  heard  — 

"He  giveth  His  beloved,  sleep  !" 

For  me,  my  heart,  that  erst  did  go 
Most  like  a  tired  child  at  a  show. 
That  sees  through  tears  the  juggler's  leap, 
Would  now  its  wearied  vision  close. 
Would  childlike  on  His  love  repose, 
"  Who  giveth  His  beloved,  sleep  ! " 

And  friends  !  dear  friends  !  when  it  shall  be 
That  this  low  breath  is  gone  from  me. 
And  round  my  bier  ye  come  to  weep, — 
Let  one,  most  loving  of  you  all, 
Say,  "  Not  a  tear  must  o'er  her  fall — 
He  giveth  His  beloved,  sleep  ! " 

One  of  Mrs.  Browning's  most  eff'ective  poems,  and  the  next  I 
shall  quote,  is  founded  upon  a  touching  incident  in  the  history  of 
her  present  majesty. 

When  Queen  Victoria  was  informed  of  her  accession  to  the 
throne  on  the  death  of  her  uncle,  she  was  so  affected  with  the 


508  ELIZABETH  BARRETT   BROWNING. 

consciousness   of    the    heavy    responsibihties    which   had   in   a 
moment  fallen  upon  her,  that  she  wept. 

Only  a  woman  could    have  versified    that   incident  as   Mrs. 
Browning  has  done. 

victoria's  tears. 

O  maiden  !  heir  of  kings  ! 

A  king  has  left  his  place  ; 
The  majesty  of  Death  has  swept 

All  other  from  his  face  ! 
And  thou,  upon  thy  mother's  breast, 

No  longer  lean  adown, 
But  take  the  Glory  for  the  Rest, 
And  rule  the  land  that  loves  thee  best. 

She  heard  and  wept  — 

She  wept  to  wear  a  crown! 

They  deck'd  her  courtly  halls  ; 

They  rein'd  her  hundred  steeds  ; 
They  shouted  at  her  palace  gate 

"A  noble  Queen  succeeds  !  " 
Her  name  has  slirr'd  the  mountain's  sleep, 

Her  praise  has  fiU'd  the  town. 
And  mourners  God  had  stricken  deep, 
Look'd  hearkening  up,  and  did  not  weep. 

Alone  she  wept, 

Who  wept,  to  wear  a  crown  ! 

She  saw  no  purples  shine. 

For  tears  had  dimm'd  her  eyes ; 
She  only  knew  her  childhood's  flowers 

Were  happier  pageantries ! 
And  while  her  heralds  play'd  their  part, 

Those  million  shouts  to  drown  — 
"  God  save  the  Queen  "  from  hill  to  mart, 
She  heard  through  all  her  beating  heart, 

And  turn'd  and  wept  — 

She  wept  to  wear  a  crown ! 


God  save  thee,  weeping  Queen! 

Thou  shalt  be  well  beloved  ! 
The  tyrant's  sceptre  cannot  move 

As  those  pure  tears  have  moved  ! 
The  nature  in  thine  eyes  we  see 

That  tyrants  cannot  own  — 
The  love  that  guardeth  liberties  ! 
Strange  blessing  on  the  nation  lies, 

Whose  sovereign  wept  — 
Yea,  wept  to  wear  a  crown ! 

God  bless  thee!  weeping  Queen  ! 

With  blessing  more  divine  ! 
And  fill  with  happier  love  than  earth's 

That  tender  heart  of  thine  ! 
That  when  the  thrones  of  earth  shall  be 

As  low  as  graves  brought  down, — 
A  pierced  hand  may  give  to  thee 
The  crown  which  angels  shout  to  see  ! 

Thou  wilt  not  weep 

To  wear  that  heavenly  crown  ! 


CATARINA   TO    CAMOENS. 


Dying  in  his  absence  abroad,  and  referring  to  the  Poem  in  which  he  recorded 
the  sweetness  of  her  eyes. 

On  the  door  you  will  not  enter, 

I  have  gazed  too  long  —  adieu  ! 
Hope  withdraws  her  peradventure  — 
Death  is  near  me, —  and  not  you! 
Come,  O  lover ! 
Close  and  cover 
These  poor  eyes,  you  called,  I  ween, 
"  Sweetest  eyes,  were  ever  seen." 


510  ELIZABETH   BARRETT  BROWNING. 

When  I  heard  you  sing  that  burden 

In  my  vernal  days  and  bowers, 
Other  praises  disregarding, 

I  but  hearkened  that  of  yours, — 
Only  saying 
In  heart-playing, 
"  Blessed  eyes  mine  eyes  have  been, 
If  the  sweetest,  his  have  seen  !" 

But  all  changeth  !     At  this  vesper. 

Cold  the  sun  shines  down  the  door  ! 
If  you  stood  there,  would  you  whisper 
"  Love,  I  love  you,"  as  before, — 
Death  pervading 
Now,  and  shading 
Eyes  you  sang  of,  that  yestreen. 
As  the  sweetest,  ever  seen  ? 

Yes !  I  think,  were  you  beside  them. 

Near  the  bed  I  die  upon, — 
Though  their  beauty  you  denied  them. 
As  you  stood  there,  looking  down. 
You  would  truly 
Call  them  duly, 
For  the  love's  sake  found  therein, — 
"  Sweetest  eyes,  were  ever  seen." 

And  if  you  looked  down  upon  them. 

And  if  they  looked  up  to  you, 
All  the  light  which  has  foregone  them 
Would  be  gathered  back  anew  ! 
They  would  truly 
Be  as  duly 
Love-transformed  to  Beauty's  sheen, — 
"  Sweetest  eyes,  were  ever  seen.  " 

But,  ah,  me  !  you  only  see  me 
In  your  thoughts  of  loving  man, 


ELIZABETH   BARRETT   BROWNING.  -Sll 


Smiling  soft  perhaps  and  dreamy, 
Through  the  wavings  of  my  fan, — 

And  unweeting 

Go  repeating, 
In  your  reverie  serene, 
*'  Sweetest  eyes,  were  ever  seen." 

While  my  spirit  leans  and  reaches 

From  my  body  still  and  pale. 
Fain  to  hear  what  tender  speech  is 
In  your  love,  to  help  my  bale  — 
O  my  poet, 
Come  and  show  it ! 
Come,  of  latest  love,  to  glean 
"  Sweetest  eyes,  were  ever  seen." 

O  my  poet,  O  my  prophet, 

"When  you  praised  their  sweetness  so, 
Did  you  think,  in  singing  of  it, 
That  it  might  be  near  to  go  ? 
Had  you  fancies 
From  their  glances. 
That  the  grave  would  quickly  screen 
"  Sweetest  eyes,  were  ever  seen?" 

No  reply  !    The  fountains  warble 
In  the  court-yard  sounds  alone  ! 
As  the  water  to  the  marble 

So  my  heart  falls  with  a  moan, 
From  love-sighing 
To  this  dying! 
Death  forerunneth  Love,  to  wm 
"  Sweetest  eyes,  were  ever  seen." 

Will  you  come  ?  when  I'm  departed 
Where  all  sweetnesses  are  hid  — 

When  thy  voice,  my  tender-hearted, 
Will  not  lift  up  either  lid. 


612  ELIZABETH    BARRETT   BROWNING.. 


Cry,  O  lover, 

Love  is  over  ! 
Cry  beneath  the  cypress  green  — 
"  Sweetest  eyes,  were  ever  seen." 

When  the  angehis  is  ringing, 

Near  the  convent  will  you  walk, 
And  recall  the  choral  singing 

Which  brought  angels  down  our  talk? 
Spirit-shriven 
I  viewed  Heaven, 
Till  you  smiled — "Is  earth  unclean, 
Sweetest  eyes,  were  ever  seen  ?" 

When  beneath  the  palace-lattice. 

You  ride  slow  as  you  have  done, 
And  you  see  a  face  there  —  that  is 
Not  the  old  familiar  one, — 
Will  you  ofdy 
Murmur  softly, 
"  Here,  ye  watched  me  morn  and  e'en. 
Sweetest  eyes,  were  ever  seen!" 

When  the  palace  ladies  sitting 

Round  your  gittern,  shall  have  said, 
"  Poet,  sing  those  verses  written 
For  the  lady  who  is  dead," — 
Will  you  tremble, 
Yet  dissemble, — 
Or  sing  hoarse,  with  tears  between, 
"  Sweetest  eyes,  were  ever  seen  ?" 

Sweetest  eyes  !     How  sweet  in  flowings, 

The  repeated  cadence  is  ! 
Though  you  sang  a  hundred  poems, 
Still  the  best  one  would  be  this. 
I  can  hear  it 
'Twixt  my  spirit 


ELIZABETH    BARRETT    BROWNING.  513 


And  the  earth-noise,  intervene  — 
"  Sweetest  eyes,  were  ever  seen  !" 

But  the  priest  waits  for  the  praying. 

And  the  choir  are  on  their  knees, — 
And  the  soul  must  pass  away  in 

Strains  more  solemn  high  than  these  ! 
]\Userere 
For  the  weary  — 
Oh,  no  longer  for  Catrine, 
"  Sweetest  eyes,  were  ever  seen  !" 

Keep  my  riband  !  take  and  keep  it, — 

I  have  loosed  it  from  my  hair  ;* 
Feeling,  while  you  overweep  it, 
Not  alone  in  your  despair, — 

Since  with  saintly 

Watch,  unfaintly, 
Or.t  of  Heaven  shall  o'er  you  lean 
"  Sweetest  eyes,  were  ever  seen." 

But  —  but  no2V  —  yet  unremoved 

Up  to  Heaven,  they  glisten  fast  — 
You  may  cast  away.  Beloved, 
In  your  future,  all  my  past  ; 
Such  old  phrases 
May  be  praises 
For  some  fairer  bosom-queen  — 
"  Sweetest  eyes,  were  ever  seen  !" 

Eyes  of  mine,  what  are  ye  doing? 

Faithless,  faithless, —  praised  amiss, 
If  a  tear  be  of  your  showing, 
Drop  for  any  hope  of  his  ! 
Death  hath  boldness 
Besides  coldness. 
If  unworthy  tears  demean 
"  Sweetest  eyes,  were  ever  seen." 

•  She  left  liim  the  riband  from  her  hair. 


65 


514  ELIZABETH   BARRETT   BROWNING. 


I  will  look  out  to  his  future  — 

I  will  bless  it  till  it  shine  ! 
Should  he  ever  be  a  suitor 
Unto  sweeter  eyes  than  mine, 
Sunshine  gild  them, 
Angels  shield  them, 
Whatsoever  eyes  terrene 
Be  the  sweetest  his  have  seen  ! 


THE    CRY    OF    THE    HUMAN. 

"  There  is  no  God,"  the  foolish  saith, — 

But  none,  "  There  is  no  sorrow  ;" 
And  nature  oft,  the  cry  of  faith. 

In  bitter  need  will  borrow  ; 
Eyes  which  the  preacher  could  not  school, 

By  wayside  graves  are  raised  ; 
And  lips  say,  "  God  be  pitiful," 

Who  ne'er  said,  "  God  be  praised." 

Be  pitiful,  O  God  ! 

The  tempest  stretches  from  the  steep 

The  shadow  of  its  coming  — 
The  beasts  grow  tame,  and  near  us  creep. 

As  help  were  in  the  human  — 
Yet,  while  the  cloud-wheels  roll  and  grind 

We  spirits  tremble  under  !  — 
The  hills  have  echoes  ;  but  we  find 

No  answer  for  the  thunder. 

Be  pitiful,  O  God  ! 

The  battle  hurtles  on  the  plains  — 
Earth  feels  new  scythes  upon  her: 

We  reap  our  brothers  for  the  wains, 
And  call  the  harvest . .  honour, — 


ELIZABETH   BARRETT  BROWNING.  515 


Draw  face  to  face,  front  line  to  line, 

One  image  all  inherit, — 
Then  kill,  curse  on,  by  that  same  sign, 

Clay,  clay, —  and  spirit,  spirit. 

Be  pitiful,  0  God! 

The  plague  runs  festering  through  the  town,— 

And  never  a  bell  is  tolling ; 
And  corpses,  jostled  'neath  the  moon. 

Nod  to  the  dead-cart's  rolling ! 
The  young  child  calleth  for  the  cup  — 

The  strong  man  brings  it  weeping ; 
The  mother  from  her  babe  looks  up, 

And  shrieks  away  its  sleeping. 

Be  pitiful,  0  God  ! 

The  league  of  gold  strikes  far  and  near,— 

And  deep  and  strong  it  enters  : 
This  purple  chimar  which  we  wear. 

Makes  madder  than  the  centaur's. 
Our  thoughts  grow  blank,  our  words  grow  strange ; 

We  cheer  the  pale  gold-diggers  — 
Each  soul  is  worth  so  much  on  'Change, 

And  marked,  like  sheep,  with  figures. 

Be  pitiful,  O  God  ! 

The  curse  of  gold  upon  the  land. 

The  lack  of  bread  enforces  — 
The  rail-cars  snort  from  strand  to  strand, 

Like  more  of  Death's  White  Horses  ! 
The  rich  preach  "rights"  and  future  days. 

And  hear  no  angel  scoffing: 
The  poor  die  mute  — with  starving  gaze 

On  corn-ships  in  the  offing. 

Be  pitiful,  0  God! 

We  meet  together  at  the  feast — 
To  private  mirth  betake  us  — 


516  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  BROWNING. 


We  stare  down  in  the  wineciip,  lest 
Some  vacant  chair  should  shake  us  ! 

We  name  delight,  and  pledge  it  round  — 
"It  shall  be  ours  to-morrow  !" 

God's  seraphs  !   do  your  voices  sound 
As  sad  in  naming  sorrow  ? 

Be  pitiful,  O  God  ! 

We  sit  together,  with  the  skies, 

The  steadfast  skies,  above  us  : 
We  look  into  each  other's  eyes, — 

"And  how  long  will  you  love  us?" — 
The  eyes  grew  dim  with  prophecy, 

The  voices,  low  and  breathless  — 
"Till  death  us  part !" — 0  words,  to  be 

Our  best  for  love  the  deathless ! 

Be  pitiful,  dear  God  I 

We  tremble  by  the  harmless  bed 

Of  one  loved  and  departed  — 
Our  tears  drop  on  the  lips  that  said 

Last  night,  "  Be  stronger  hearted  !" 
O  God, —  to  clasp  those  fingers  close, 

And  yet  to  feel  so  lonely  !  — 
To  see  a  light  on  dearest  brows, 

Which  is  the  daylight  only  ! 

Be  pitiful,  O  God  ! 

The  happy  children  come  to  us, 
And  look  up  in  our  faces  : 
They  ask  us  —  Was  it  thus,  and  thus, 
When  we  were  in  their  places  ? 
We  cannot  speak  :  —  we  see  anew 

The  hills  we  used  to  live  in  ; 
And  feel  our  mother's  smile  press  through 
The  kisses  she  is  giving. 

Be  pitiful,  0  God ! 


ELIZABETH  BARRETT  BROWNING.  517 

We  pray  together  at  the  kirk. 

For  mercy,  mercy,  solely  — 
Hands  weary  with  the  evil  work. 

We  lift  them  to  the  Holy  ! 
The  corpse  is  calm  below  our  knee  — 

Its  spirit,  bright  before  Thee  — 
Between  them,  worse  than  either,  we 

Without  the  rest  or  glory  ! 

Be  pitiful,  O  God ! 

We  leave  the  communing  of  men. 

The  murmur  of  the  passions  ; 
And  live  alone,  to  live  again 

With  endless  generations. 
Are  we  so  brave  ?  —  The  sea  and  sky 

In  silence  lift  their  mirrors  ; 
And,  glassed  therein,  our  spirits  high 

Recoil  from  their  own  terrors. 

Be  pitiful,  0  God  ! 

We  sit  on  hills  our  childhood  wist, 

Woods,  hamlets,  streams,  beholding  ! 
The  sun  strikes,  through  the  farthest  mist. 

The  city's  spire  to  golden. 
The  city's  golden  spire  it  was. 

When  hope  and  health  were  strongest, 
But  now  it  is  the  churchyard  grass, 

We  look  upon  the  longest. 

Be  pitiful,  O  God ! 

And  soon  all  vision  waxeth  dull  — 

Men  whisper,  "  He  is  dying :" 
We  cry  no  more,  "  Be  pitiful  !"  — 

We  have  no  strength  for  crying  !  — 
No  strength,  no  need  !     Then,  Soul  of  mine, 

Look  up  and  triumph  rather  — 
Lo  !  in  the  depth  of  God's  Divine, 

The  Son  adjures  the  Father  — 

Be  pitiful,  0  God  ! 
vv 


COWPER  S    GRAVE. 

• 
I  will  invite  thee,  from  thy  envious  herse 
To  rise,  and  'bout  the  world  thy  beams  to  spread, 
That  we  may  see  there  's  brightness  in  the  dead. 

Uabikotok. 

It  is  a  place  where  poets  crown'd 

May  feel  the  heart's  decaying-  -  - 
It  is  a  place  where  happy  saints 

May  weep  amid  their  praying  — 
Yet  let  the  grief  and  humbleness 

As  low  as  silence  languish  ; 
Earth  surely  now  may  give  her  calm 

To  whom  she  gave  her  anguish. 

O  poets  !  from  a  maniac's  tongue 

Was  pour'd  the  deathless  singing  ' 
O  Christians  !  at  your  cross  of  hope 

A  hopeless  hand  was  clinging  ! 
O  men,  this  man  in  brotherhood, 

Your  weary  paths  beguiling, 
Groan'd  inly  while  he  taught  you  peace, 

And  died  while  ye  were  smiling ! 

And  now,  what  time  ye  all  may  read 

Through  dimming  tears  his  story 
How  discord  on  the  music  fell. 

And  darkness  on  the  glory  — 
And  how,  when,  one  by  one,  sweet  sounds 

And  wandering  lights  departed, 
He  wore  no  less  a  loving  face, 

Because  so  broken-hearted. 

He  shall  be  strong  to  sanctify 

The  poet's  high  vocation. 
And  bow  the  meekest  Christian  down 

In  meeker  adoration : 


ELIZABETH   BARRETT  BROWNING.  519 


Nor  ever  shall  he  be  in  praise 

By  wise  or  good  forsaken ; 
Named  softly,  as  the  household  name 

Of  one  whom  God  hath  taken  ! 

With  sadness  that  is  calm,  not  gloom, 

I  learn  to  think  upon  him  ; 
With  meekness  that  is  gratefulness, 

On  God,  whose  heaven  hath  won  him  - 
Who  sufFer'd  once  the  madness-cloud 

Towards  His  love  to  blind  him  ; 
But  gently  led  the  blind  along, 

Where  breath  and  bird  could  find  him  ; 

And  wrought  within  his  shatter'd  brain 

Such  quick  poetic  senses, 
As  hills  have  language  for,  and  stars 

Harmonious  influences ! 
The  pulse  of  dew  upon  the  grass 

His  own  did  calmly  number; 
And  silent  shadow  from  the  trees 

Fell  o'er  him  like  a  slumber. 

The  very  world,  by  God's  constraint, 

From  falsehood's  chill  removing. 
Its  women  and  its  men  became 

Beside  him  true  and  loving !  — 
And  timid  hares  were  drawn  from  woods 

To  share  his  home-caresses, 
Uplooking  to  his  human  eyes, 

With  sylvan  tendernesses. 

But  while  in  blindness  he  remain'd. 

Unconscious  of  the  guiding. 
And  things  provided  came  without 

The  sweet  sense  of  providing. 
He  testified  this  solemn  truth, 

Though  frenzy  desolated, — 


520  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  BROWNING. 


Nor  man  nor  nature  satisfy 
Tfliom  only  God  created! 

Like  a  sick  child,  that  knoweth  not 

His  mother  while  she  blesses, 
And  droppeth  on  his  burnins:  brow 

The  coolness  of  her  kisses  ; 
That  turns  his  fever'd  eyes  around  — 

"My  mother!  where  's  my  mother^" 
As  if  such  tender  words  and  looks 

Could  come  from  any  other  .  — 

The  fever  gone,  with  leaps  of  heart 

He  sees  her  bending  o'er  him  ; 
Her  face  all  pale  from  watchful  love, 

Th'  unweary  love  she  bore  him  — 
Thus,  woke  the  poet  from  the  dream 

His  life's  long  fever  gave  him. 
Beneath  those  deep  pathetic  eyes 

Which  closed  in  death  to  save  him  ! 

Thus!  oh,  not  thus!  no  type  of  earth 

Could  image  that  awaking, 
Wherein  he  scarcely  heard  the  chaunt 

Of  seraphs  round  him  breaking 
Or  felt  the  new  immortal  throb 

Of  soul  from  body  parted  ; 
But  felt  those  eyes  alone,  and  knew 

"  My  Saviour  !  not  deserted  !  " 

Deserted  !  who  hath  dreamt  that  when 

The  cross  in  darkness  rested, 
Upon  the  Victim's  hidden  face 

No  love  was  manifested  ? 
What  frantic  hands  outstretched  have  e'er 

Th'  atoning  drops  averted  — 
What  tears  have  washed  them  from  the  soul- 

That  one  should  be  deserted  ? 


ELIZABETH   BARRETI   BROWNING.  521 


68 


Deserted  !  God  could  separate 

From  His  own  essence  rather: 
And  Adam's  sins  have  swept  between 

The  righteous  Son  and  Father  — 
Yea  !  once,  Immanuel's  orphan'd  cry 

His  universe  hath  shaken  — 
It  went  up  single,  echoless, 

"  My  God,  I  am  forsaken  !  " 

It  went  up  from  the  Holy's  lips 

Amid  his  lost  creation. 
That  of  the  lost,  no  son  should  use 

Those  words  of  desolation  ; 
That  earth's  worst  frenzies,  marring  hope. 

Should  mar  not  hope's  fruition  : 
And  I,  on  Cowper's  grave,  should  see 

His  rapture,  in  a  vision  ! 


522  MISS    LOWE. 


MISS  LOWE. 

This  accomplished  lady  is  a  daughter  of  the  Dean  of  Exeter, 
and  is  the  author  of  a  volume  entided  Poems,  chiefly  Dramatic, 
edited  by  Thomas  Bell  Lowe,  and  published  in  London  in  1840. 
She  has  a  fine  command  of  language,  and  has  succeeded  admira- 
bly in  catching  the  style  of  Milton. 

We  extract  the  following  from  "  Cephalus  and  Procris."  — 


HAMADRYAD. 

Sweet  Zephyr,  stay ! 
Thy  breath  has  causrht  the  ocean  freshness  ; 

On  my  parched  brow  let  it  play. 
Tell  me  whence  thou  wandercst  hither, 
And  thy  course  directed  whither. 

ZEPHYF 

Far  on  the  confines  of  tlie  west. 
Beyond  the  Broad  Atlantic's  breast. 
In  silence  and  eternal  gloom 
Doth  ancient  darkness  spread  his  dome. 
There  in  slumbers  soft  I  lay. 
Till  wafted  to  the  realms  of  day, 
On  the  Islands  Blest  descending, 

O  what  joyous  life  was  mine  ! 
Mid  bright  bowers  and  sweet  vales  blending 

All  delights  divine. 
No  churlish  winds  had  license  there  ; 

Only  my  gentle  race  might  waken 
The  odorous  flowers,  and  perfumes  rare 

From  groves  of  spice  and  incense  shaken  ; 


And  from  their  shades  the  music  bear 
Of  harpings  and  entrancing'  song  ; 

Pure  spirits  breathe  that  golden  air, 
And  godlike  forms  are  seen  among, 

Wanderers  from  their  star-paved  dwelling ; 
But  severed  from  that  happy  throng, 

By  stern  iEolus'  compelling. 

Once  more  I  skimmed  the  briny  main, 

And  paused  on  wide  Iberia's  plain. 

Thence  unheeding,  still  proceeding 

Towards  the  rising  of  the  sun ; 

Forests  deep  and  hills  of  frost. 

And  smiling  valleys  I  have  cross'd. 

And  whate'er  I  breathed  upon 

Straight  with  livelier  gladness  shone  ; 

But  weary  now  I  fain  would  close 

My  filmy  pinions  in  repose. 


HOUR   OF    NIGHT    DEPARTING. 

Soft  pacing  down  the  western  sky, 

Sad-suited  Night  in  silence  goes  ; 
Her  dragons  slow,  with  sleepless  eye, 

She  guideth  to  repose. 
And  following  still  the  noiseless  wain, 
I  must  not  loiter  from  her  train  ; 
Nor  ever  gaze  on  light's  gay  throng, 
Nor  join  my  sisters'  dance  and  song. 

When  glows  the  orient  main. 
Her  cypress  veil,  far-floating  spread, 
In  darkness  shrouds  my  drooping  head, 
And  solemn  is  our  gliding  tread 

Towards  Erebus'  domain. 


524  MISS  CHARLOTTE  YOUNG. 


MISS   CHARLOTTE   YOUNG. 

This  lady,  who  has  very  recently  published  her  first  volume 
of  poetry  "77ie  World's  Complaint,  and  other  Poems"  bids  fair 
to  display,  indeed  may  be  said  to  display  already,  poetical  powers 
of  the  highest  order;  and  to  take  a  very  distinguished  place 
among  the  poetesses  of  the  present  generation.  She  has  a  large 
share  of  Eliza  Cook's  spirit ;  she  possesses  much  of  Mrs.  Hemans's 
grace,  with  more  force ;  and  all  Miss  Landon's  eloquent  facility, 
with  greater  purity  of  sentiment. 

I  do  not  know  where,  in  all  the  writings  of  our  Female  Poets, 
to  find  a  more  melodious,  simple-hearted  and  instructive  little 
poem  than  this  :  — 

THE    BIRD    AND    THE    FOUNTAIN. 

There  was  once  a  little  fountain. 

That  flow'd  away  unseen. 
In  the  bosom  of  a  mountain. 

Where  man  had  never  been  ; 
Yet  on  it  wander'd  brightly. 

With  a  pretty  bubbling  sound, 
Whilst  its  waters  sprinkled  lightly 

The  plants  that  grew  around. 

But  one  evening,  at  the  "  gloaming," 

A  Swallow,  pert  and  vain, 
From  far  distant  countries  roaming. 

Came  soaring  o'er  the  plain  ; 
And  staying  by  the  mountain, 

To  rest  his  weary  wing, 
To  that  pretty  little  fountain 

He  thus  began  to  sing :  — 


MISS  CHARLOTTE  YOUNG.  525 


"  Poor  humble  thing,  and  lowly, 

Confined  to  one  lone  spot, 
Condemn'd  to  suffer  slowly 

Thy  solitary  lot ! 
Oh !  had  you  seen  the  bowers 

O'er  which  I  've  lately  flown, 
How  poor  you  'd  think  the  flowers 

That  blossom  here  alone  ! 

"For  there,  'midst  scenes  of  splendour, 

A  fountain's  life  should  run. 
And  all  its  sweetness  render 

Beneath  an  Eastern  sun  ; 
There  should  your  cooling  waters. 

In  fragrance  and  perfume. 
Descend  to  bless  the  daughters 

Of  Oriental  bloom." 

The  little  fountain  listen'd. 

And,  for  a  moment's  space. 
Perhaps  less  brightly  glisten'd 

In  her  lonely  hiding-place  ; 
Perchance  the  swallow's  measure 

A  passing  shadow  threw 
On  every  simple  pleasure 

Her  humble  spirit  knew. 

And  soon  that  pretty  Fountain, 

Once  happy  and  content. 
Perchance  had  scorn'd  the  mountain 

Where  all  her  life  was  spent. 
Had  not  a  thirsty  flower 

Just  caught  her  sparkling  eye, 
Who,  but  for  her  sweet  shower, 

Must  pine  away  and  die. 

Oh,  then  she  said,  "  Pert  stranger, 
I  do  not  envy  thee, 


526  MISS   CHARLOTTE  YOUNG. 


Though  o'er  those  scenes  a  ranger, 

Which  I  may  never  see  ; 
Since  in  my  quiet  flowing 

I've  joys  to  thee  unknown, 
The  bliss  of  bliss  bestowing, — 

The  sweetest  ever  known  !" 

She  said,  and  soft  reclining 

Within  her  crystal  bed. 
She  kissed  that  flow'ret  pining, 

And  raised  its  drooping  head. 
The  Swallow  and  his  story 

Were  soon  forgotten  quite, 
For  his  was  fading  glory. 

And  hers  enduring  light ! 

There  is  something  perfectly  feminine  in  the  foregoing  passage. 
A  man  could  not  have  written  it.  The  sweet  placidity  of  the  sen- 
timent is  such  as  a  woman  only  could  indite  :  and  nothing  can  be 
more  charming  than  the  effect  produced  by  it. 

The  following  lines  contain,  I  think,  a  noble  burst  of  womanly- 
philosophy  :  — 

EVERY-DAY    HEROES. 

We  speak  and  we  read  of  the  hero's  deeds, 

And  envy  perchance  his  fame  ; 
We  would  tread,  like  him,  some  path  that  leads 

To  gaining  a  deathless  name  ; 
And  we  sigh  as  our  time  is  vainly  spent, 
"  Oh,  't  was  not  for  this  that  I  was  meant !" 

We  feel,  with  a  touch  of  deep  regret, 

What  nothings,  alas  !  we  've  been  ; 
How  like  a  stagnant  pool,  as  yet. 

Has  been  to  us  Life's  stream. 
There  seem'd  to  our  souls  a  warning  sent,— 
«<  Mortal !  for  this  thou  wert  not  meant." 


MISS  CHARLOTTE  YOUNG.  527 


Yet  we  sit  and  we  dream  of  a  better  day, 

And  idly  its  coming  wait, 
When,  like  the  hero  of  poet's  lay. 

We  too  may  be  something  great ; 
And  still  through  the  mist  our  spirits  grope, 
For  the  distant  gleam  of  this  better  hope. 

For  alas  !  while  we  dream  these  airy  dreams, 

And  sigh  for  the  better  afar. 
We  are  dwelling  on  that  which  only  seems. 

While  we  slight  the  truths  that  are. 
We  are  looking  for  flowers  more  fair  and  sweet, 
While  we  trample  the  fairest  'neath  our  feet. 

The  wearisome,  lone,  and  monotonous  lot, 
Where  To-day  's  as  the  day  that  is  gone  ; 

Where  To-morrow  brings  nothing  To-day  has  not. 
Nor  evening  the  hopes  of  the  morn  ; 

Oh  !  even  here,  in  the  loneliest  hours, 

Are  there  lying  some  fair  but  neglected  flowers. 

Some  being  we  gaze  on  from  day  to  day. 

And  tend  with  a  holy  care, 
Lightening  the  woes  in  each  other's  way, 

Each  breathing  a  mutual  prayer. 
Oh !  here,  in  the  homeliest  act  or  speech, 
May  we  to  the  fame  of  a  hero  reach. 

For  when  selfish  thoughts  are  for  others  subdued. 
And  smiles  conquer  the  rising  frown. 

When  we  love  our  own  in  another's  good. 
Oh  !  we  weave  us  a  deathless  crown, 

That  many  a  hero's,  present  or  past. 

With  all  its  glory,  has  never  surpass'd. 

Oh  !  did  we  but  see  how  in  smallest  things 
Are  beginnings  of  all  that 's  great, 


528  MISS   CHARLOTTE    YOUNG. 

Life's  soil  would  be  water'd  by  countless  springs, 

That  now  'neath  the  surface  wait. 
We  should  feel  that  when  earthward  kindly  sent, 
For  heroes  and  heroines  all  were  meant. 

One  of  the  chief  attributes  of  Miss  Young's  muse  is  its  cheer- 
fidness.  There  is  no  discontent,  no  peevishness,  no  fretfulness 
in  her  philosophy.  Her  very  melancholy  is  healthy.  The  open- 
ing verses  of  The  World's  Complaint  are  very  excellent  in  this 
respect : — 

Through  all  the  changes  of  unnumber'd  years, 

I  've  roll'd  around  the  life-bestowing  Sun  ; 
Yet  still  each  season  fresh  and  bright  appears 

As  when  my  onward  course  was  first  begun. 
Spring  with  its  new-born  beauty  does  not  shun. 

Awakening  as  of  old  the  sleepy  earth  ; 
And  Summer  in  its  brightness  loseth  none 

Of  all  its  early  loveliness  and  worth. 
Still  blooms  the  flower,  and  glows  the  ripen'd  fruit, 
And  through  the  ground  the  tender  leaflets  shoot. 

And  yet,  alas  !  I  long  have  been  misnamed 

A  desert  wilderness,  —  a  worthless  clod  ; 
And  man,  vain  man,  is  not  a  whit  ashamed 

Thus  to  abuse  the  bounty  of  his  God : 
And  say  that,  till  he  rests  beneath  the  sod, 

There  's  nothing  worthy  of  his  noble  thought ; 
But  day  by  day  he  still  must  toil  and  plod ; 

And  seek,  but  never  find  the  object  sought. 
And  me  he  calls  a  waste,  a  fleeting  show, — 
A  dismal  charnal-house  for  man  below. 

Ungrateful  mortal  !  canst  thou  look  around, 
Upon  the  waving  trees  and  meadows  green  ? 

Canst  listen  to  the  universal  sound 

Of  joy  and  gladness  filling  every  scene  ? 


MISS   CHARLOTTE   YOUNG.  529 


Canst  see  the  stars  benignant  shine  at  e'en  ? 

Canst  feel  the  breeze  refresh  thy  sullen  brow, 
And  cherish  still  thy  bosom's  inward  spleen  ? 

Oh  !  haste  at  once  thy  stubborn  will  to  bow. 
Think  !  would  such  beauty  be  bestow'd  on  me, 
If  I  were  made  to  nourish  misery  ? 

Come,  now,  and  look  upon  my  laughing  face ; 

View  the  bright  colours  of  the  simplest  flower ; 
The  merry  rivulet's  meanderings  trace 

In  the  glad  sunlight  of  the  morning  hour  ; 
And,  yielding  to  the  soul-pervading  power 

That 's  deep  enshrined  in  all  created  things. 
See  if  thy  gloomy  visions  dare  to  lower 

Where  e'en  the  insect  in  his  gladness  sings. 
Look  forth,  and  tell  me  where  the  spot  appears 
That  should  be  called  by  man  "  the  vale  of  tears." 


There  is  great  truth  of  thought  in  the  following  finely  expressed 
lines  :  — 

OH  !    EVER   THUS    DO    SUN    AND    SHADE. 

Oh !  did  you  list  at  morning  to  the  merry  bridal  bell. 

That  stealing  through  the  fields  and  woods,  so  soft  and  cheery 

fell? 
And  hear  you  now  so  mournfully  the  knell  of  parting  life, 
That  minds  you  of  some  sever'd  tie,  —  of  husband,  son,  or  wife  ? 

Oh !  ever  thus  do  sun  and  shade 

By  turns  this  mortal  life  pervade. 

And  did  you  see  the  passing  gloom  upon  the  maiden's  brow, 
The  silent  tear  upon  her  cheek  ?  —  And  do  you  see  her  now,— 
Her  face  lit  up  with  sunny  smiles,  all  radiant  with  delight. 
Her  eyes  that  beam  with  innocence,  in  Love's  own  beauty  bright  ? 

Oh  !  ever  thus  do  sun  and  shade 

By  turns  this  mortal  life  pervade. 


530  MISS  CHARLOTTE   YOUNG. 

Night  follows  day,  and  day  the  night;  the  sun  succeeds  the  shower ; 
And  deepest  gloom  may  hover  near,  to  chase  the  sportive  hour. 
But  though  it  darken  for  a  time,  sweet  Hope  will  soon  prevail, 
As  grateful  calms  will  come  to  soothe  where  blew  the  boisterous 
gale. 

For  ever  thus  do  sun  and  shade 

By  turns  this  mortal  life  pervade. 

I  know  no  writer  who  can  employ  familiar  and  homely  images 
with  more  success  and  effect  than  Miss  Young.  The  lines  which 
t  mark  in  italics  in  the  following  poem,  afford  a  fine  proof  of  her 
power  in  this  respect :  — 

EVENING. 

How  like  a  tender  mother, 

With  loving  thoughts  beguiled, 
Fond  Nature  seems  to  lull  to  rest 

Each  faint  and  weary  child  ! 
Drawing  the  curtain  tenderly,  '■ 

Affectionate  and  mild. 

Hark  !  to  the  gentle  lullaby 

That  through  the  trees  is  creeping, — 

Those  sleepy  trees  that  nod  their  heads 
Ere  the  moon  as  yet  comes  peeping. 

Like  a  tender  nurse,  to  see  if  all 
Her  little  ones  are  sleeping. 

One  little  fluttering  bird, 

Like  a  child  in  a  dream  of  pain. 
Has  chirp'd  and  started  up. 

Then  nestled  down  again. 
Oh!  a  child  and  a  bird,  as  they  sink  to  rest. 

Are  as  like  as  any  twain. 

The  chief  charm,  however,  in  Miss  Young's  poetry  is  its 
strong,  earnest,  hearty,  human  sympathies.    She  can  feel  for  the 


MISS  CHARLOTTE   YOUNG.  531 


meanest  of  her  species:  and  that  most  honestly  and  nobly.  There 
is  a  world  of  true  charity  and  fine  philanthropy  in  these  verses  en- 
titled — 

THE    POOR   man's    FLOWER. 

Wandering  along  his  weary  way, 

In  dirty  tatters  meanly  dress'd, 
A  beggar-man  one  summer  day, 

Seem'd  hastening  to  some  place  of  rest. 
No  smile  was  on  his  wither'd  face. 

It  nought  but  anxious  care  exprest ; 
Grim  Poverty  had  left  its  trace, 

And  inly  rankled  at  his  breast ; 
Yet  in  his  coat  that  weary  hour 
The  poor  man  nursed  a  cherished  flower. 

'T  was  no  choice  plant  in  hothouse  bred, 

And  guarded  with  a  tender  care  ; 
No  hand  had  propp'd  its  drooping  head, 

Or  shielded  it  from  midnight  air ; 
Yet  choicest  flowers  might  fail  to  bring 

To  their  rich  owners  thoughts  as  fair, 
Ab  did  that  simple,  lowly  thing. 

To  that  unhappy  man  of  care. 
Who  from  the  hedge-side,  free  to  all. 
Had  pluck'd  himself  that  blossom  small. 

No  flow'ret  in  a  lady's  dress, 

Where  all  beside  is  meet  and  bright, 
And  she,  in  her  own  loveliness. 

Seems  but  another  flower  of  light, 
Has  aught  so  sacred  or  so  dear. 

So  touching  to  the  gazer's  sight, 
As  that  bright  spot  amongst  the  drear, 

That  star  amidst  the  gloom  of  night ;  — 
The  flow'ret  pluck'd  by  fingers  rude. 
To  cheer  the  beggar's  solitude. 


532  MISS   CHARLOTTE   YOUNG. 

On,  on  he  pass'd,  that  human  flower, 

Whom  men  set  foot  on  hke  a  weed ; 
Yet,  waiting  for  a  kinder  hour. 

Within  was  many  a  precious  seed. 
The  beggar's  spirit,  like  his  dress. 

Might  not  be  wholly  fair,  indeed ; 
Yet  some  bright  bud  of  loveliness, 

The  germ  of  many  a  noble  deed. 
Did  we  but  take  the  pains  to  find, 
Blooms  fresh  in  each  neglected  mind. 

'  The  simple  plucking  of  that  flower 

Betray'd  a  tenderness  of  thought. 
Ready  to  find  in  every  hour 

The  kindred  sweetness  that  it  sought : 
A  sense  of  beauty  seldom  found 

Where  all  within  is  darkly  fraught, 
But  often  trampled  to  the  ground, 

And  mercilessly  set  at  nought, 
By  those  who  in  their  selfish  power 
Treat  as  the  weed  what  is  the  flower. 

Yet  brighter  days  begin  to  dawn  ; 

The  weeds  of  prejudice  and  pride. 
Though  slowly,  yet  are  surely  drawn, 

From  bosoms  where  they  used  to  hide  : 
And,  thou,  poor  scorn'd  and  wither'd  flower, 

With  wealth  and  grandeur  unallied, 
Shalt  see,  ere  long,  the  happy  hour, 

When  men,  from  falseness  purified* 
Shall  learn  to  estimate  the  worth 
Of  all  the  toiling  sons  of  earth. 


Miss  Young's  muse  bears  a  strong  resemblance  to  Mrs.  How- 
itt's.  It  seems  like  a  younger  sister.  It  cannot,  of  course,  be 
said  that  Miss  Young  as  yet  displays  that  calm  consciousness  of 
strength,  and  that  exquisite  perfection  of  style  which  so  remarka- 


bly  distinguish  the  poetry  of  Mrs.  Howitt ;  but  still  the  likeness 
is  great.  Both  writers  exhibit  a  pure  simplicity  of  thought  and 
feeling  ;  both  have  a  strong  and  refined  sense  of  natural  and  moral 
beauty  ;  both  earnest,  truthful,  loving  hearts  ;  both  fervently  dedi- 
cate their  powers  to  the  service  and  welfare  of  humanity.  And 
I  venture  to  predict  that  in  the  course  of  a  few  years,  when  prac- 
tice shall  have  matured,  and  experience  ripened  her  genius.  Miss 
Young  will  take  a  place  in  the  estimation  of  the  world,  not  very 
far  below  the  great  poetess  to  whom  I  have  here  compared  her. 
She  could  not  copy  from  a  better  model,  or  desire  a  prouder  glory. 


THE     END. 


PUBLICATIONS 


HENRY    CAEET    BAIRD, 

SUCCESSOR   TO   E.  L.  CAREY, 

No.  7  Hart's  Building,  Sixth  Street,  above  Chestnut,  Philadelphia. 


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long  considered  a  requirement.  It  will  be  found  to  excel  all  other  works  of  a  simil.ar  nature,  from  the  great 
extent  of  its  range,  the  exemplary  nature  of  its  well-selected  examples,  and  from  the  easy,  simple,  and  sys- 
tematic manner  in  which  the  model  calculations  are  established. 

NORRIS'S  HAND-BOOK  FOR  LOCOMOTIVE  ENGINEERS  AND 
MACHINISTS  : 

Comprising   the  Calculations   for  Constructing   Locomotives, 

Manner  of  setting  Valves,  &c.  &c.  By  Septimus  Norris,  Civil  and  Mechanical 
Engineer.     In  One  Volume,  12mo,  with  illustrations $1.50 

Witli  pleasiu-e  do  we  meet  with  such  a  work  as  ilessrs.  Norris  and  Baird  have  given  us. — Artisan. 
In  this  work,  he  has  given  what  are  called  the  "  secrets  of  the  business,"  in  the  rules  to  eousti'uct  locomo- 
tives, in  order  that  the  million  should  be  learned  in  all  things. — Scientific  American. 

A  TREATISE  ON  THE  AMERICAN  STEAM-ENGINE. 
Illustrated  by  numerous  Wood  Cuts  and  other  Engravings. 

By  Oliver  Byrne.     In  one  Volume.     (In  press.) 


PUBLICATIONS  OF  HENEY  CAREY  BAIED. 


THE  PRACTICAL  COTTON-SPINNER  AND  MANUFACTURER;   OR, 
THE  MANAGER'S  AND  OVERLOOKER'S  COMPANION. 

This  work  contains  a  Comprehensive  System  of  Calculations 

for  Mill  Gearing  and  Maeliinery,  from  the  first  moving  power  through  the  different 

processes  of  Carding,  Drawing,  Slabbing,  Roving,  Spinning,  and  Weaving,  adapted 

to  American  JMachinery,  Practice,  and  Usages.     Compendious  Tables  of  Yarns  and 

Reeds  are  added.     Illustrated  by  large  Working-Drawings  of  the  most  approved 

American  Cotton  Machinery.     Complete  in  One  Volume,  octavo $3.50 

Thisoclition  of  Scott's  Cotton-Spinnpr,  by  Oliver  Byrne,  is  designed  for  the  American  Operative.  It  will 
he.  found  intensely  practical,  and  will  be  of  the  greatest  possible  value  to  the  Manager,  Overseer,  and 
Workman. 


THE  PRACTICAL  METAL-WORKER'S  ASSISTANT ; 
For  Tin-Plate  Workers,   Brasiers,   Coppersmiths,    Zinc-Plate 

Ornamenters  and  Workers,  Wire  Workers,  Whitesmiths,  Blacksmiths,  Bell  Hangers, 

Jewellers,  Silver  and  Gold  Smiths,  Electrotypers,  and  all  other  Workers  in  Alloys 

and  Metals.     By  Charles    Holtzappfel.     Edited,  with  important  additions,  by 

Oliveb.  Byrjte.     Complete  in  One  Volume,  octavo .$4.00 

It  will  treat  of  Casting,  rounding,  and  Forging;  of  Tonga  and  other  Tools;  Degrees  of  Heat  and  Manage- 
ment of  Fires;  Welding;  of  Heading  and  Swage  Tools;  of  Punches  and  Anvils;  of  Hardening  and  Tem- 
pering; of  Malleable  Iron  Castings,  Case  Hardening,  Wrought  and  Cast  Iron.  The  manairemcjt  and 
niauipulation  of  Metals  and  Alloys,  Melting  and  Mixing.  The  management  of  Furnaces.  Oa.sting  and 
Founding  with  Metallic  Moulds,  Joining  and  Working  Sheet  Metal.  Peculiarities  of  the  diff.Tent  Tools 
employed.  Processes  dependent  on  the  ductility  of  Metals.  Wire  Drawing,  Drawing  Metal  Tubns,  Sokl'T- 
ing.  i'he  use  of  the  Blowpipe,  and  every  other  known  Metal- Worker's  Tool.  To  the  works  of  Holtzjijipfel, 
Oliver  Btrne  has  added  all  that  is  useful  and  peculiar  to  the  American  Metal-Worker. 

THE  ARTS  OF  TANNING  AND  CURRYING, 
Theoretically  and  Practically  considered  in  all  their  details. 

Being  a  full  and  comprehensive  Treatise  on  the  Manufacture  of  the  various  kinds 
of  Leather.  Illustrated  by  over  two  hundred  Engravings.  Edited  from  the  French 
of  De  Fouten«lle  and  Malapeyere.  With  numerous  Emendations  and  Additions,  by 
Campbell  Morfit,  Practical  and  Analytical  Chemist.     Complete  in  one  Volume, 

oetavo $5.00 

This  important  Treatise  will  be  found  to  cover  the  whole  field  in  the  most  masterly  manner,  and  it  i.s 
•believed  that  in  no  other  braneh  of  applied  science  could  more  signal  service  be  rendered  to  American 
ManufactarMs.  .,..,.  .  ,.      v 

The  publisher  is  not  aware  that  in  any  other  work  heretofore  issued  m  this  country,  more  space  has  been 
devoted  to  this  subject  than  a  single  chapter;  and  in  offering  this  volume  to  so  large  and  intelligent  a  class 
as  American  Tanners  and  Leather  Dressers,  he  feels  confident  of  their  substantial  support  and  encourage- 
ment. 

THE  MANUFACTURE  OF  IRON  IN  ALL  ITS  VARIOUS  BRANCHES : 
To  which  is  added  an  Essay  on  the  Manufacture  of  Steel,  by 

Frederick  Overman,  Mining  Engineer,  with  one  hundred  and  fifty  AYood  Engra- 
vings.    A  new  edition.     In  One  Volume,  octavo,  five  hundred  pages §3.00 

We  have  now  to  announce  the  appearance  of  another  valuable  work  on  the  subject  which,  in  our  humble 
m.inion,  supplies  any  deficiency  which  late  improvements  and  discoveries  m.ay  have  cau.sed,  from  the  lapse 
of  time  since  the  date  of  "  Mushet"  and  "  Schrivenor."  It  is  the  production  of  one  of  our  transatl.antic 
brethren,  Mr.  Frederick  Overman,  Mining  Engineer:  and  we  do  not  hesitate  to  set  it  down  as  a  work  of 
groat  importance  to  all  connected  with  the  iron  interest;  one  which,  while  it  is  sufliciently  technological 
full  V  to  explain  chemical  analysis,  and  the  various  phenomena  of  iron  under  dift'erent  circumstances,  to  the 
hatiffaction  of  the  most  fastidiou.s,  is  written  in  that  clear  and  comprehensive  style  as  to  be  available  to  the 


capacity  of  the  humblest  mind,  and  consequently  will  be  of  much  advantage  to  those  works  where  the  pro- 
prietors may  see  the  desirability  of  placing  it  iu  the  hands  of  their  operatives.— io?i(^on  Morning  Journai 


PUBLICATIONS  OF  HENRY  CAREY  BAIRD. 


PRACTICAL  SERIES. 


THE   AMERICAN   MILLER  AND   MILLWRIGHT'S   ASSISTANT.     $1. 

THE   TURNER'S   COMPANION.     75  cts. 

THE   PAINTER,    GILDER,   AND   VARNISHER'S   COMPANION.     75  cts. 

THE   DYER   AND   COLOUR-MAKER'S   COMPANION.     75  cts. 

THE   BUILDER'S   COMPANION.     $1. 

THE   CABINET-MAKER'S   COMPANION.     75  cts. 

A  TREATISE  ON  A  BOX  OF  INSTRUMENTS.     By  Thomas  Kentish.     |1. 

THE  PAPER-HANGER'S  COMPANION.  By  J.  Arrowsmith,     75  cts. 

THE  ASSAYER'S  GUIDE.     By  Oscar  M.  Lieber.     75  cts. 

THE  COMPLETE  PRACTICAL  BREWER.     By  M.  L.  Btrn.     $1. 

THE  COMPLETE  PRACTICAL  DISTILLER.     By  M.  L.  Byrn.     $1. 

THE  BOOKBINDER'S  MANUAL. 

THE  PYROTECHNIST'S  COMPANION.     By  G.  W.  Mortimer.     75  cts. 

WALKER'S  ELECTROTYPE  MANIPULATION.     75  cts. 

COLBURN  ON  THE  LOCOMOTIVE  ENGINE.     75  cts. 

THE  AMERICAN  MILLER  AND  MILLWRIGHT'S  ASSISTANT: 
By  William  Carter  Hughes,   Editor   of   "  The  American 

Miller,"  (newspaper),  Buffalo,  N.  Y.    Illustrated  by  Drawings  of  the  most  approved 
Macliinery.     In  One  Volume,  12mo $1 

The  author  offers  it  as  a  substantial  reference,  instead  of  speculative  theories,  which  belong  only  to  those 
not  immediately  attached  to  the  business.  Special  notice  is  also  given  of  most  of  the  essential  improvementa 
which  have  of  late  been  introduced  for  the  benefit  of  the  mWer.— Savannah  Republican. 

The  whole  business  of  making  flour  is  most  thoroughly  treated  by  him. — Bulletin. 

A  very  comprehensive  view  of  the  Millwright's  hxxsiness.— Southern  Literary  Messenger. 


THE  TURNER'S  COMPANION : 
Containing  Instructions  in  Concentric,  Elliptic,  and  Eccentric 

Turning.  Also,  various  Plates  of  Chucks,  Tools,  and  Instruments,  and  Directions 
for  using  the  Eccentric  Cutter,  Drill,  Vertical  Cutter,  and  Circular  Rest ;  with 
Patterns  and  Instructions  for  working  them.  Illustrated  by  numerous  Engrav- 
ings.    In  One  Volume,  12mo 75  cts. 

The  object  of  the  Turner's  Companion  is  to  explain  in  a  clear,  concise,  and  intelligible  manner,  the  rudi 
ments  of  this  beautiful  nxt.— Savannah  Republican. 

There  is  no  description  of  turning  or  lathe-work  that  this  elegant  little  treatise  does  not  describe  and 
illustrate.— )f^s<ern  Lit.  Messenger. 


THE  PAPER-HANGER'S  COMPANION : 
In  which  the  Practical  Operations  of  the  Trade  are  system 

atically  laid  down  ;  with  copious  Directions  Preparatory  to  Papering  ;  Prevention« 
against  the  effect  of  Damp  in  AValls  ;  the  various  Cements  and  Pastes  adapted  to 
the  several  purposes  of  the  Trade ;  Observations  and  Directions  for  the  Panelling 
and  Ornamenting  of  Rooms,  &c.,  &c.  By  James  Arrowsmith.  In  One  Volum«;, 
12mo "^^cts 


PUBLICATIONS  OP  HENEY  CAREY  BAIED. 


THE  PAINTER,  GILDER,  AND  VARNISHER'S  COMPANION: 
Containing  Eules  and  Regulations  for  every  thing  relating  to 

the  arts  of  Painting,  Gilding,  Varnishing,  and  Glass  Staining ;  numerous  useful 
and  valuable  Receipts ;  Tests  for  the  detection  of  adulterations  in  Oils,  Colours, 
&c.,  and  a  Statement  of  the  Diseases  and  Accidents  to  which  Painters,  Gilders, 
and  Varnishers  are  particularly  liable  ;  with  the  simplest  methods  of  Prevention 
and  Remedy.      Third  Edition.      In  One  Volume,  12mo,  cloth 75  cts. 

Rpjectins;  all  that  appeared  foreign  to  the  subject,  the  compiler  has  omitted  nothing  of  real  practical 
\roTth.—Nutit's  ilcrchanW  ilogaziy^e. 

An  excellent  i>radicu?  work,  and  one  which  the  practical  man  cannot  afford  to  be  without. — Farmer  and 
JUechanic. 

It  contains  every  thing  that  is  of  interest  to  persons  engaged  in  this  trade. — BulUtin. 

This  book  will  prove  valuable  to  all  whose  business  is  in  any  way  connected  with  painting. — Scott's 

Cannot  fail  to  be  useful. — JV.  T.  Commercial. 


THE  DYER  AND  COLOUR-MAKER'S  COMPANION : 
Containing   upwards  of  two  hundred   Receipts   for   making 

Colours,  on  the  most  approved  principles,  for  all  the  various  styles  and  fabrics  now 
in  existence ;  with  the  Scouring  Process,  and  plain  Directions  for  Preparing, 
"VVashing-off,  and  Finishing  the  Goods.  Second  Edition.  In  One  Volume,  12mo, 
cloth 75  ctSi 

This  is  another  of  that  most  excellent  class  of  practical  books,  which  the  publisher  is  giving  to  the 
public.  Indeed,  we  believe  there  is  not,  for  manufacturer.?,  a  more  valuable  work,  having  been  prepared 
for,  and  expressly  adapted  to  their  business. — Farmer  and  Mechanic. 

It  is  a  valuable  book. —  Otsego  Repuhlican. 

We  have  shown  it  to  some  practical  men,  who  all  pronounced  it  the  completest  thing  of  the  kind  they 
had  seen. — N.  Y.  Kation. 


THE  BUILDER'S  POCKET  COMPANION: 

Containing  the  Elements  of  Building,  Surveying,  and  Archi- 
tecture ;  with  Practical  Rules  and  Instructions  connected  with  the  subject.     By 

A.  C.  Sjieaton,  Civil  Engineer,  &c.    Second  Edition.    In  One  Volume,  12mo $1 

Contexts. — The  Builder,  Carpenter,  Joiner,  Mason,  Plasterer,  Plumber,  Painter, 

Smith,  Practical  Geometry,  Surveyor,  Cohesive  Strength  of  Bodies,  Architect. 

THE  ASSAYER'S  GUIDE; 
Or,  Practical  Directions  to  Assayers,  Miners,  and  Smelters,  for 

the  Tests  and  Assays,  by  Heat  and  by  Wet  Processes,  of  the  Ores  of  all  the  prin- 
cipal Metals,  and  of  Gold  and  Silver  Coins  and  Alloys.  By  0sc.\r  M.  Lieber,  late 
Geologist  to  the  State  of  Mississippi.     12mo.     AVith  Illustrations ...75  cts. 

A  TREATISE  ON  A  BOX  OF  INSTRUMENTS, 
And  the  Slide  Rule,  with  the  Theory  of  Trigonometry  and 

Logarithms,  including  Practical  Geometry,  Surveying,  Measuring  of  Timber,  Cask 
and  Malt  Gauging,  Heights  and  Distances.  By  Tho.mas  Kentish.  In  One 
Volume,  12mo $1 


PUBLICATIONS  OF  HENEY  CAREY  BAIRD. 


THE  CABIFET-MAKEH  AND  UPHOLSTERER'S  COMPANION: 

Comprising  the  Rudiments  and  Principles  of  Cabinet-making 

and  Upholstery,  with  familiar  Instructions,  illustrated  by  Examples,  for  attaining 
a  proficiency  in  the  Art  of  Drawing,  as  applicable  to  Cabinet- Work  ;  the  processes 
of  Veneering,  Inlaying,  and  Buhl  Work ;  the  art  of  Dyeing  and  Staining  Wood, 
Bone,  Tortoise-shell,  &c.  Directions  for  Lackering,  Japanning,  and  Varnishing ; 
to  make  French  Polish  ;  to  prepare  the  best  Glues,  Cements,  and  Compositions, 
and  a  number  of  Receipts  particularly  useful  for  Workmen  generally,  with  Ex- 
planatory and  Illustrative  Engravings.  By  J.  Stokes.  In  One  Volume,  12mo, 
with  Illustrations 75  cts. 

K  lar^e  amount  of  practical  information,  of  great  service  to  all  concerned  in  those  branches  of  business. 
— Ohio  State  Journal. 


HISTORY  OF  PROPELLERS  AND  STEAM  NAVIGATION: 
With  Biographical  Sketches  of  Early  Inventors.     By  Robert 

Macfaelane,  C.  E.,  Editor  of  the  "  Scientific  American."     In  One  Volume,  12mc. 
Illustrated  by  over  Eighty  Wood  Engravings 75  cts. 

The  object  of  this  "  History  of  Propellers  and  Steam  Navic;ation"  is  twofold.  One  is  the  arranGrement 
and  description  of  many  devices  which  have  been  invented  to  propel  vessels,  in  order  to  prevent  many  in- 
genious men  from  wasting  their  time,  talents,  and  money  on  such  projects^  The  immense  amount  of  time, 
study,  and  money  thrown  away  on  such  contrivances  is  beyond  calculation.  In  this  respect,  it  is  hoped 
that  it  will  be  the  means  of  doing  some  good. — Preface. 


A  TREATISE  ON  SCREW-PROPELLERS  AND  THEIR  STEAM- 
ENGINES, 

With  Practical  Rules  and  Examples  by  which  to  Calculate 

and  Construct  the  same  for  any  description  of  Vessels.    By  J.  W.  Ntstrom.  Illus- 
trated by  over  thirty  large  working  Drawings.     In  one  Volume,  octavo $3.50 

THE  ANALYTICAL  CHEMIST'S  ASSISTANT: 

A  Manual  of  Chemical  Analysis,  both  Qualitative  and  Quan- 
titative, of  Natural  and  Artificial  Inorganic  Compounds  ;  to  which  are  appended 
the  Rules  for  Detecting  Arsenic  in  a  Case  of  Poisoning.  By  Fkederik  Wcehler, 
Professor  of  Chemistry  in  the  University  of  Gottingen.  Translated  from  the  Ger- 
man, with  an  Introduction,  Illustrations,  and  copious  Additions,  by  Oscak  M. 
LiEBEE,  Author  of  "The  Assayer's  Guide."     In  one  Volume,  12mo $1.25 


THE  FRUIT,  FLOWER,  AND  KITCHEN  GARDEN. 
By  Patrick  Neill,  L.  L.  D.,  F.  R.  S.  E.,    Secretary   to  the 

Royal  Caledonian  Horticultural  Society.     Adapted  to  the  United  States,  from  the 

Fourth  Edition,  revised  and  improved  by  the  Author.     Illustrated  by  fifty  AVood 

Engravings  of  Hothouses,  &c.  &c.     In  One  Volume,  12mo $1.25 

This  volume  supplies  a  desideratum  much  felt,  and  gives  within  a  moderate  compass  all  the  horticultural 
information  necessary  for  practical  use.— Newark  Mcrcunj. 

A  valuable  addition  to  the  horticulturist's  library.— iJuZiimore  Patriot. 


PUBLICATIONS  OF  HENEY  CAEEY  BAIED. 


THE  ENCYCLOPEDIA  OF  CHEMISTRY,  PRACTICAL  AND 
THEORETICAL : 

Embracing  its  Application  to  the  Arts,  Metallurgy,  Mineralogy, 

Geology,  Medicine,  and  Pliarmacy.  By  James  C.  Booth,  Melter  and  Refiner  in 
the  United  States  Mint,  Professor  of  Applied  Chemistry  in  tlie  Franklin  Institute, 
&c. ;  assisted  by  Campbell  Moefit,  Author  of  "Chemical  Manipulations,"  &c. 
Complete  in  One  Volume,  royal  octavo,  978  pages,  with  numerous  Woodcuts  and 
other  Illustrations.     Second  Edition.     Full  bound $5 

Tt  covers  tho  whole  fii^d  of  Chemistry  as  applied  to  Arts  and  Sciences.  *  *  *  As  no  library  is  complete 
■without  a  common  dictionary,  it  is  also  our  opinion  that  none  can  be  without  this  Encyclopedia  of  Chemis- 
try.— ScUntijlc  American. 

A  work  of  time  and  labour,  and  a  treasury  of  chemical  information.^iVorfft  American. 

liy  far  the  best  manual  of  the  kind  which  has  been  presented  to  the  American  public. — Boston  Courier. 

An  invaluable  work  for  the  dissemination  of  sound  practical  knowledge. — Ledger. 

A  treasury  of  chemical  information,  including  all  the  latest  and  most  important  discoveries. — Baltimore 
American. 

THE  LOCOMOTIVE  ENGINE: 
Including  a  Description  of  its  Structure,  Rules  for  Estimating 

its  Capabilities,  and  Practical  Observations  on  its  Construction  and  Management. 
By  Zekah  Colburn,  12mo ~>^  cts. 


RURAL  CHEMISTRY: 

An  Elementary  Introduction  to  the  Study  of  the  Science,  in 

its  relation  to  Agricultiu-e  and  the  Arts  of  Life.  By  Edward  Solley,  Professor 
of  Chemistry  in  the  Horticultural  Society  of  London.  From  the  Third  Improved 
London  Edition,  12mo .$1.25 

SYLLABUS  OF  A  COMPLETE  COURSE  OE  LECTURES  ON 
CHEMISTRY : 

Including  its  Application  to  the  Arts,  Agriculture,  and  Mining, 

prepared  for  the  use  of  the  Gentlemen  Cadets  at  the  Hon.  E.  I.  Co.'s  Military 
Seminary,  Addiscombe.  By  Professor  E.  Solly,  Lecturer  on  Chemistry  in  the 
Hon.  E.  I.  Co.'s  Military  Seminary.  Revised  by  the  Author  of  "  Chemical  Manipu- 
lations."    In  One  Volume,  octavo,  cloth $1'25 

THE  BOOKBINDER'S  MANUAL. 

Complete  in  one  volume,  12mo.  (in  press.) 

THE  DYER'S  INSTRUCTOR: 
Comprising  Practical  Instructions  in  the  Art  of  Dj-eing  Silk, 

Cotton,  Wool  and  Worsted,  and  Woollen  Goods,  &c.,  containing  ne.irly  800  Receipts, 
to  which  is  added  a  Treatise  on  the  Art  of  Padding  and  the  Printing  of  Silk  Warps, 
.'•keins  and  Handkerchiefs,  and  the  various  Mordants  and  Colours  for  the  different 
styles  of  such  Avork.  By  David  Smitu,  Pattern  Dyer,  1  vol.  12mo,  just  pub- 
lished  $1.50 


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HOUSEHOLD  SUEGEEY ;  OE,  HINTS  ON  EMEEGENCIES. 

By  J.  F.  South,  one  oi  the  Surgeons  of  St.  Thomas's  Hospi- 
tal.    In  Cue  Volume,  12mo.     Illustrated  by  nearlj'  fifty  Engravings $1.2r> 

THE  COMPLETE  PEACTICAL  BEEWEE; 
Or,  Pl'iin,  Concise,  and  Accurate  Instructions  in  the  Art  of 

Brewing  Beer,  Ale,  Porter,  &c.  &c.,  and  the  Process  of  Making  all  the  Small  Beers. 
By  M.  Lafayette  Byrn,  M.  D.     With  Illustrations.     12mo $1.00 

THE  COMPLETE  PEACTICMi  BISTILLEE; 
By  M.  Lafayette  Byrn,  M.  D.     With  Illustrations. 

i2mo $1.00 

THE  PYEOTECHNIST'S  COMPANION; 
Or,  A  Familiar  System  of  Recreative  Fire- Works.    By  G.  W. 

Mortimer.     Illustrated  by  numerous  Engravings.     12mo 75  cts. 

ELECTEOTYPE  MANIPULATION : 

Being  the  Theory  and  Plain  Instructions  in  the  Art  of  Work- 
ing in  Metals,  by  Precipitating  them  from  their  Solutions,  through  the  agency  of 
Galvanic  or  Voltaic  Electricity.  By  Charles  V.  Walker,  Hon.  Secretary  to  the 
London  Electrical  Society,  &c.  Illustrated  by  Woodcuts.  A  new  Edition,  from 
the  Twenty-fifth  London  Edition.     12mo 75  cts. 

HOUSEHOLD  MEBICINE. 

By  D.  Francis  Condie,  M.  D.  In  One  Volume,  12mo.  Uni- 
form with,  and  a  companion  to,  the  above.     (In  immediate  preparation.) 

ELWOOD'S  GEAIN  TABLES: 
Showing  the  value  of  Bushels  and  Pounds  of  different  kinds 

of  Grain,  calculated  in  Federal  Money,  so  arranged  as  to  exhibit  upon  a  single 
page  the  value  at  a  given  price  from  icn  cents  to  two  dollars  per  bushel,  of  any 
quantity  from  one  pound  to  ten  thousand  bushels.  By  J.  L.  Elwood.  A  new  Edition. 
In  One  Volume,  12mo ^'■ 

To  ivnilers  and  Prortnce  Dealers  this  work  is  pronounced  by  all  wlio  have  it  in  use.  to  he  superior  in  ar- 
ran.tfement  to  any  work  of  the  kind  published— and  unerrwg  accuracy  in  every  calculation  may  be  rtlvM 
l/»n/?  in  fvpry  i7ist''tir/>..  i.  ^        i  •     4i  ^ 

ifj-  A  reward  of  Twenty-five  Dollars  is  offered  for  an  error  of  one  cent  found  m  the  work. 

PEEEUMEEY;  ITS  MANUFACTUEE  ANB  USE: 
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for  all  the  Fashionable  Preparations  ;  the  whole  forming  a  valuable  aid  to  the 
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MISS  LESLIE'S  COMPLETE  COOKERY. 

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Leslie.  Forty-seventh  Edition.    Thoroughly  Revised,  with  the  Addition  of  New 

Receipts.     In  One  Volume,  12mo,  half  bound,  or  in  sheep $1 

In  preparing  a  new  and  carefully  revised  edition  of  this  my  first  work  on  cookery,  I  have  introduced 
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that  it  has  made  practical  housewives  of  young  ladies  who  have  entered  into  married  life  with  no  other  ac- 
quirements than  a  few  showy  accomplishments.  Gentlemen,  also,  have  told  me  of  great  improvements  in 
the  family  table,  after  presenting  their  wives  with  this  manual  of  dome.'itic  cookery,  and  that,  after  a  morn- 
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EXAMINATIONS  OF  DRUGS,  MEDICINES,  CHEMICALS,  &c. 
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SPECIMENS  OE  THE  BRITISH  POETS. 

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LALLA  ROOKH;  A  ROMANCE  BY  THOMAS  MOORE: 
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10  PUBLICATIONS  OF  HENEY  CAEEY  BAIED. 

THE  POETICAL  WOEKS  OE  THOMAS  GRAY: 

With  Illustrations  by  C.  W.  Radcliffe.  Edited  with  a  Me- 
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of  Thomas  Gray. — Richviond  Whig. 


THE  POETICAL  WOEKS  OF  HENEY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW: 

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POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  ENGLAND  IN  THE  NINETEENTH 

CENTURY: 

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THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  THE  ANCIENTS  : 

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THE  FEMALE  POETS  OF  GREAT  BRITAIN. 
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tions by  celebrated  Artists.     In  One  Volume,  royal  8vo.     Cloth,  gilt $2.50 

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PTJBLICATIONS  OF  HENEY  CAEEY  BAIED.  J  1 

THE  TASK,  AND  OTHEH  POEMS. 
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THE  POETICAL  V/ORKS  OF  NATHANIEL  P.  WILLIS. 
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MISCELLANEOUS. 


ADVENTURES  OF  CAPTAIN  SIMON  SUGGS ; 

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12  PUBLICATIONS  OF  HENRY  CAREY  BAIRD. 


THE  COMPLETE  WORKS  OF  LORD  BOIINGBROKE : 

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MEMOIRS  OF  THE  GENERALS,  COMMODORES,  AND  OTHER 
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B 


14  PUBLICATIONS  OF  HENRY  CAEEY  BAIRD. 

AMEHICAN  COMEDIES. 
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ACHIEVEMENTS  OF  THE  KNIGHTS  OF  MALTA. 

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A  SYSTEMATIC   AEEANGEMENT  OF  LOED  COKE'S  FIRST 

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16  PUBLICATIONS  OF  HENKY  CAEEY  BAIED. 

OUR  ARMY  AT  MONTEREY. 

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THE  LIFE  OF  LORENZO  DE  MEDICI. 

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WORD  TO  WOMAN. 

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